


Just For One Day

by ghostnebula (gghostnebula)



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Anxiety, Child Abuse, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Eddie Whump, Eddie is 15 at the start of this, Eddie's uncle is a BAD MAN, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, KEEP YOUR KINK SHIT AWAY FROM MY ANGST SHIT, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Medication Use, Panic Attacks, Rape/Non-con Elements, Set after the events of the films/novel, Sexual Abuse, Slow Burn, THIS IS NOT YOUR KINK SHIT, That's a tag now, The Losers are a little older, Unwitting use of puberty blockers, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2020-11-28 04:57:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 37,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20960849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gghostnebula/pseuds/ghostnebula
Summary: One day, while he and Bill are heading down to their clubhouse to meet up with everyone else, it rests on the tip of his tongue. It’s bitter. It burns. The distracting drag of it drowns out whatever Bill is saying to him.Thisis the most scared he's ever been in his life.





	1. Three Minute...

**Author's Note:**

> Do NOT make me reiterate that you better not interact if you think this is meant to be sexually appealing. I WILL dropkick pedos into the sun. This is your first and final warning. Do NOT pass Go, do NOT collect $200.
> 
> This fic contains non-graphic depictions of rape/non-con and underage sex. I am 100% serious when I say it's not meant to be "kinky" or whatever the fuck. It's meant to be terrifying. We aren't glorifying jack shit. 
> 
> CW for the heavily implied use of date rape drugs in chapter 1 and potentially upcoming chapters as well.

* * *

It’s been a full year since everything.

Sometimes that’s hard for Eddie to believe. There's never any formal recognition of the anniversary of that day in the sewers, but they all know. They all feel it, like a weight on their chests, and it's quiet, because maybe breaking the silence will shatter the illusion and they’ll all wake up a year in the past and have to do it all over again.

Then comes Beverly’s departure -- headed back to Portland after she and her aunt spent the summer visiting Derry. They set up camp in Richie’s basement the night before, trying to pull an all-nighter watching cheap sci-fi films and drinking more pop than any kid should be allowed to have access to. But again, they try not to mention it. Even though they all send Bev long, solemn looks in turn, and they all hug her maybe a little tighter and maybe a little longer than necessary the next morning (and there’s a little bit of heartbreak in their ‘goodbyes’), no one says anything about waiting a full ten months to see her again. 

Even Richie seems resigned for the rest of the morning, after they all watch the faded red Volkswagen shudder away down the road for the last time this summer. 

It’s only a few weeks into the school year that it happens.

“Eddie,” his mom says, breathing heavily in the final burst of humidity late September has bestowed upon them. “Your Uncle Charlie called today. He’s going to be spending a little while with us, so you’ll need to clean up the guest room for him.”

Eddie’s world tilts on his axis and suddenly _ he’s _ the one who’s breathing heavily. “O-okay, mommy,” he says, wandering out of the living room in a daze.

He remembers Uncle Charlie, but he..._ doesn’t. _ The same way that he remembers kindergarten -- in hazy, half-smudged flashes. He thinks he was about that age last time he actually _ saw _ his uncle. He thinks he might remember what he looks like, and maybe a few snippets of his voice. He sort of remembers the thin golden chain of a pocket watch. 

He doesn’t remember what makes him so _ afraid. _

Then, a week later, he _ does. _

“Eddie! Oh, look at you! You’ve barely grown an inch since the last time I saw you!” 

Eddie scowls and starts to protest that, but Charlie is laughing loudly and sweeps him up in an embrace, and it’s like being struck across the face with a brick. The smell and the feel of him sticks out the most, and maybe that’s why he wasn’t _ sure. _

For a fraction of a second, his body and brain war over whether to struggle out of the hug or freeze altogether. In the end, he goes rigid just as Charlie lets him go, and almost falls over on his ass. 

The hand that pats his cheek lingers, just a moment too long, enveloping half his face and part of his throat, where his heartbeat is going haywire. Eddie stares with what he’s sure are wide, blank eyes, and Charlie just chuckles and withdraws his hand.

That night, Eddie climbs out his bedroom window and is at Richie’s house before he has a chance to think better off it, the sun well below the horizon as he raps tentatively on the glass.

“Dude, what the fuck?” Richie pries the window open the rest of the way, and Eddie shoves past until he lands on the comic books strewn over the bed, barely catching the flashlight before it bounces off and hits the floor. “It’s a fucking school night,” Richie hisses, only half-whispering.

Already, Eddie feels safer. Just leaving his own house for a short while makes the heavy feeling in his lungs go away, and he sticks out his tongue and snaps, “Yeah, like you were fucking sleeping anyway.”

He makes Richie give up one of his pillows and refuses to explain himself, and Richie’s dealt with Eddie and his fucked-up home life long enough to know not to pester him too much.

“You gotta wake up before your mom notices you’re gone. I don’t want to lose my special privileges with her because she thinks I’m shacking up with her son. She might be jealous since you’re way cuter and she knows it,” Richie teases as he tosses all the books to the floor. 

Eddie kicks him and steals all the blankets, and he doesn’t have to worry about sleeping in, because he doesn’t sleep at all.

Eddie Kaspbrak is fifteen years old. 

Eddie Kaspbrak has known for over a year that the medications his mom forces him to take aren’t real. That he isn’t sick.

Eddie Kaspbrak has traversed the sewers of Derry, seen all his worst fears come to life, and fought a killer clown for the sake of his friends.

Yet_ this _ is the most scared he’s ever been in his life.

He makes the very wise decision not to say anything. To anyone. 

One day, while he and Bill are heading down to their clubhouse to meet up with everyone else, it rests on the tip of his tongue. It’s bitter. It burns. The distracting drag of it drowns out whatever Bill is saying to him. 

If anyone could fix this, couldn’t Bill? Richie’s joked before about Bill being a “knight in shining armour”, and for the first time Eddie realizes that isn’t inaccurate. Bill is courageous when he needs to be. He’s strong.

He’s good, and kind, and that’s what Eddie needs right now.

But then, Bill is a kid just as much as he is. What could Bill do about his situation that Eddie couldn’t on his own, if only he were a bit braver, or a bit bigger, or a bit less helpless? And he doesn’t _ mean _ to be, nor does he want to be, but he can only hear those things about himself so many times before they become true.

Besides, _ isn’t _ it true that’s he’s small and he’s weak? Even Ben is starting to tower over him now. Richie actually _ lifted _ him out of the clubhouse a few weeks ago.

Things are changing around him, and he’s stuck the same as always. _ Nothing _ he can do will stop what he knows is coming.

This isn’t the kind of problem the kids of Derry can just present to the adults of Derry, because as they’re all acutely aware, the adults don’t have the capacity to care. They see bad things happening right in front of them and they turn and walk away.

Hell, Mr. Keene _ gives _ his mom countless drugs, fake or not, to force down his throat every day of his life. That’s fucked up. It _ has _ to be, and yet none of the adults involved seem to think so, or if they do they just don’t care.

So why would they care about this?

But then -- if Uncle Charlie was going to do anything, wouldn’t it have happened by now? Maybe he’s remembering wrong. Maybe he imagined it all.

Maybe he shouldn’t say anything at all, in case he’s just making it all up.

His train of thought is derailed when he wipes out halfway across the Kissing Bridge, a stray stick catching his front tire and sending him skidding several metres across the pavement.

“Oh _ shit,” _ Bill cries from somewhere behind him, as he sits up and tries to make the world stop spinning. 

His arms and knees are scraped to shit -- he can tell without looking. His skin twinges and throbs and then blood drips into his eye and he’s still kind of caught up in,_ “Maybe I’m making it all up,” _ but the memories are so _ vivid _ and _ painful _ and he thinks he might throw up.

“Eddie, a-are you okay?” Bill drops to his knees in front of him and reaches out to wipe the blood off his face but his breath catches in his lungs like he’s full of thorns. He slaps the hand away before it gets too close, knees trembling. “Hey, w-wh-what--?”

He abandons his bike in favour of _ running, _ fast as his damaged legs will carry him. It occurs to him somewhere between the school and his house that he must be having an asthma attack, but -- well, no, that can’t be, because it’s all fake, right?

So why can’t he _ breathe? _

He skids to a halt at the end of his block, chest heaving, realization settling like lead in his veins.

He _ can’t _ go home, because… because _ Uncle Charlie _ is there with his too-easy smiles and his wandering hands. Because his mom is fucking _ crazy _ and he’s all scraped up and if she sees him he won’t be able to leave the hospital for _ days. _ She’ll make him get shots. She’ll make him take more medication he doesn’t need. 

She might keep him home from school for a while, and _ that-- _ there couldn’t be anything worse than _ that, _ not right now. Not if it means he’ll be home alone with his uncle who…

Automatically, he turns towards Richie’s house instead, before remembering he isn’t there; he’s in the clubhouse, with the other Losers, because that’s where they’re all supposed to be, and...and-- oh, _ fuck, _ did he push Bill away? Whatever just happened on the bridge was all static and adrenaline until this very moment. _ Why _ did he push Bill away?

Breathing isn’t getting any easier. He fumbles for his aspirator, which he only carries around to appease his mother (the alternative is probably being locked in his room for eternity), and finds that it barely helps. His feet turn towards Richie’s.

_ No, he can’t go there. _

_ He needs to _ tell _ somebody. _

_ Who’s going to listen? _

His vision is starting to blur and all he can do is stand there weighing his options and _ breathe in, breathe out, too fast, _ ** _slow down--_ **

He hits the pavement for the second time in ten minutes.

“Hey, kiddo, how’re ya feeling?”

Eddie’s eyelids flutter again and he groans. What the fuck happened? He feels like he was run over by a truck.

“Eddie, bud--” 

Eddie sits up so fast his head collides with the wall behind him. Charlie is here, right beside him, _ in his room, all alone-- _

“Hey, woah there, easy, kiddo. You got pretty banged up.” 

He blinks a few times, curling tighter into himself, before he spots the rolls of gauze and bottle of rubbing alcohol and his stomach turns at the idea of his uncle even _ attempting _ to touch him.

“I can do it myself,” are the first words out of his mouth. He wants the next ones to be, “Get the fuck out of my room,” but he isn’t sure how that will go over.

Except Uncle Charlie offers one of those sickly-sweet smiles, the same kind he remembers from almost a decade ago, and stands. “Sure thing,” he says, and then he’s gone, leaving Eddie bleeding sluggishly on the bed and perhaps a little bit in shock.

He reaches for the rubbing alcohol like he expects it to turn into a snake and bite him. A year ago, it very well could have.

Is that what all this is? Another Pennywise trick? A small part of him wishes that were true, even if that would mean It was back. 

He has to sneak into the washroom to deal with the cut above his eyebrow, peeking around corners to avoid a run-in with his uncle. On tip-toe, once it’s cleaned and bandaged, he hurries back to his room and burrows under the covers, squeezing his eyes shut.

This used to be the worst part of the night. He doesn’t want to think about that. He just wants to sleep, but anxiety buzzes under his skin as he lies there in the semi-dark and prays for sleep to come.

The door creaks open, slow and precise. Tears spring to his eyes before he can stop them and he bites the inside of his cheek.

“Hey, Eddie? You forgot your meds. I think these are the ones you’re supposed to take before bed?”

_ Oh. _

Okay.

That’s all.

He lets out the breath he was holding and sits up as the lights come on, taking the proffered glass of water and handful of pills. This much he can handle. He’s been playing pretend his whole life, so what’s the harm in keeping it up until he’s old enough to move out?

And if it’s all his uncle wants…

He hands the glass back but Charlie doesn’t leave. He hovers there, for a moment that seems to stretch on forever, while Eddie’s brain races in a million different directions. Then he sits on the edge of the bed and he smiles again. Eddie’s knees knock into his ribs from the force with which he draws them _ away _ from him, up towards himself. 

Makes himself smaller, like that’s ever helped him before.

“Eddie, bud, do you remember when I used to come visit? When you were younger?”

“Um,” Eddie says, swallowing heavily, and he's sure he needs to measure his next words carefully. What happens if he says no? What happens if he says _ yes? _

What happens if he’s wrong?

“I don’t, uh… maybe?” is all he manages to come up with, his voice cracking.

His hand is on his cheek again. He doesn’t want it there. He doesn’t know how to tell him that and he’s too busy trying to draw a breath to figure it out.

His arms feel funny.

“You were so small back then. You’re still so _ small. _ And always so soft.” Charlie’s thumb rubs across his cheek, tracing a pattern of freckles, and his legs go numb and he’s _ terrified. _ “We used to have fun. Right here, like this.”

Eddie isn’t sure if the overwhelming bout of dizziness and exhaustion is because of the stress of the day or all the pills he just took, but… no, it can’t be, because they’re all supposed to be fake. They’re all supposed to be bullshit.

What’s wrong with him?

The room warps around him, everything shifting out of focus as Charlie’s hand slides down to stroke over his collarbone. 

“I’m...I…_ don’t--” _ His tongue feels like it’s made of wool. He thinks he’s nauseated.

He tips over backwards into the pillows with a confused whine. 

“Shh, you’ll be alright,” Charlie whispers, and his lips press wetly to his cheek, just shy of the corner of his mouth, and the only thing Eddie can feel properly after that is the warmth of tears on his face.

* * *


	2. Another Dead...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a little more graphic but not, like, explicit.

* * *

Eddie struggles more than usual to get out of the clubhouse.

Richie, always eager to show off how ‘ripped’ he is (he’s not, really -- he’s gangly at best, it’s just that Eddie weighs ninety pounds soaking wet), grabs him by the forearms and lifts with so much force that he’s outright airborne for a second, laughing as he tumbles to the forest floor beside him.

“Asshole, be _ careful!” _ he complains, whacking Richie on the shoulder.

Richie sits up and sticks his tongue out at him, eyes bright. “Sorry, Eddie, baby,” he says in his _terrible_, nasally, Italian Mobster voice, “I just forget how small you are, ya know?”

_Still so small._

The smile vanishes from Eddie’s face. He’s on his feet and moving away from Richie before he can say anything else, and Richie calls after him, confused. This isn’t how these interactions are supposed to go. They have a routine. A pattern. Eddie is supposed to snap back with something like, “It’s not my fault you’re a fucking walking lamppost!” and Richie is supposed to joke about him staying hobbit-sized forever and they’re _ supposed _ to keep going in circles until Bill or Mike or someone with a few more brain cells in their possession makes them stop.

Eddie’s feet carry him towards the pile of bikes they abandoned on their way into the Barrens -- to the bike one of his friends was kind enough to drop off at his house after _ that night. _

The weight of pills makes his fanny pack a million times heavier lately. He’s been flushing them down the toilet again, like he used to for a few months after Pennywise. He’s been flushing them _ when he can, _ but Uncle Charlie likes to hover over his shoulder while he takes them, now. 

It’s been the same every night since then. It occurred to Eddie after only a few days that Charlie must be mixing something in with the usual placebo cocktail, something more sinister. 

_ Awareness returns to him slowly. First in the static buzz clouding his head, and how much it hurts without hurting. Then the dry ache in his throat. He pries his eyes open when he realizes he’s having trouble swallowing, fully intending to get out of bed and fetch a glass of water, but his legs give out under him the second he tries to stand. _

_ Lightning bolts of pain travel up his back and through his hips when he hits the ground. He sucks in a harsh, wheezing breath, trying not to scream. _

_ The static starts to clear. _

_ There’s something sticky trailing down the back of his thigh. Then it hits like a freight train and he _ knows _ what it is he _ knows _ and he feels the crusted tear tracks on his cheeks and the way his eyelashes are clumped together. He blinks sluggishly. His chest rattles. _

_ He doesn’t go back to sleep. _

The thing is, he realizes, as he sets his bike upright, is that he doesn’t really have anywhere to go.

The only place he’s ever going to feel safe is here, with the other Losers. 

“Dude, where the fuck are you going?” Richie is asking loudly, stomping after him. Eddie freezes. He doesn’t know. Where did he _ think _ he could go?

“Um,” he says, gaze darting past Richie to where their friends are still working on exiting the clubhouse. 

“We’re supposed to go to the quarry. Leave your bike,” says Richie, and, oh, yeah. Right. 

That makes sense.

Richie looks at him funny. “Have you been sleeping like, at all? You look like shit.”

“Hey, fuck you,” Eddie hisses, dropping the bike, and the strange expression melts away. 

He only flinches a little bit when Richie slings an arm around his shoulders and walks him back over to the rest of the group, where Ben and Mike are trying to maneuver the door back over the hole that makes the entrance to the clubhouse.

“You got it fucking backwards,” Stan is saying, while Ben shakes his head and insists that _ he made the damn thing; he knows how it works, it’s just heavy as hell. _

It’s on the way back from the quarry, sunburnt and dripping wet because Richie had pushed him into the water fully clothed, that he’s reminded again of just how fucked up his fucked-up life has become.

A vibrant blue Pinto rolls up slowly beside the Losers Club and Eddie’s heart leaps into his throat. He takes his next few steps faster, pushing his bike closer to the curb -- wedging himself between Bill and Mike before the voice carries over to him.

“Hey, Eddie! How’re ya doing? Need a ride?”

“No,” Eddie says, keeping his gaze straight ahead.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends?” Charlie asks, speeding up a little to get closer, to force Eddie to look at him. The other Losers have slowed to a gradual stop around him and he sighs.

“This is my Uncle Charles,” he grumbles after a beat of silence.

His uncle laughs and waves a hand dismissively. “Please, call me Charlie. Charles is so formal.”

It’s Richie who reacts first. “Whaaat? Eds, you didn’t tell us your uncle was visiting.” He reaches through the open passenger window and shakes Charlie’s hand. Eddie grinds his teeth when he sees Charlie’s fingers curl over Richie’s, anger flaring up in his gut. Charlie smiles wider. “I’m Richie. Love the mustache, dude. Very Buffalo Bill.”

“Fantastic to meet one of my dear Eddie’s friends, Rich.”

Eddie’s sure there can’t be anything left of his teeth after watching his friends each shake Charlie’s hand in turn, biting down harder each time. He wants to scream at him to get his hands the _ fuck _ away from them, to never go near them again, but he doesn’t know how to explain away that behaviour.

“Alright, hop in,” Charlie says finally, swinging the passenger door open and giving Eddie a pointed look.

“Wha… no, I’m okay,” he offers feebly. “I have my bike, so…”

“Ah, what’s a little mud? We’ll put it in the back seat. Not a problem.” Charlie starts getting out of the car and Eddie’s heart hammers in his chest. Without thinking, he backs up, towards where Bill is a steady presence behind him.

Bill clears his throat. “Actually, uh, Ch-Charlie, sir, we were g-g-going to my house for movie night.”

“Oh. I see. Is that your usual Saturday night routine?” Charlie asks, one foot out of the car.

“Yeah. Pizza and a movie. You can totally come if you--” Richie starts to joke, but Bill is quick to talk over him.

“It’s kids only. Mrs. Kaspbrak knows he’ll be with me,” he says smoothly, and Eddie is too busy shaking in his shoes to realize Bill doesn’t stutter once. 

Charlie frowns. “But Eddie,” he says saccharinely, the way his mom often does, “your clothes. It’s so cold, now.”

Eddie glances down at his still-damp shirt. Fucking _ Richie. _ Why’d he have to push him in the water like that? “I’ll borrow some from Bill,” he insists, mounting his bike before Charlie can come up with another excuse. “C’mon, guys.”

“Don’t keep him out too late!” Charlie calls playfully after them. Eddie wants to hurl. 

Bill keeps perfect pace with him, a physical barrier between him and any cars on the road, even though the little Pinto had driven off in the other direction. Eddie doesn’t comment on how much slower he has to go to do that, especially when every movement of his legs sends little twinges of pain through his lower back, making him pedal more sluggishly than usual.

Neither of them really say anything until they’re back at Bill’s house, though Eddie spends the whole ride hyper-aware of Bill’s presence at his side, while he drowns out the rowdy banter of the rest of their friends around them.

“This is a-all I could find. S-s-sorry,” Bill murmurs, holding out a handful of folded clothes to Eddie in his cramped washroom. 

“You don’t have to apologize,” Eddie says, uncharacteristically subdued. “You guys are all just beanpoles. I’ll roll up the sleeves and stuff.”

_ “Eddie.” _ Bill sounds stern. He isn’t often. 

Eddie tenses up under his scrutiny.

“Is he hurting you?” 

“No,” Eddie denies, vehemently. _ “No. _ Jesus.” _ Why _ is he lying? What good will that do? “He’s just… he’s overbearing. I don’t like him. He’s too much like my mom.”

“Oh,” is all Bill says for quite some time. Eddie fidgets with the bundle of Bill’s old clothes. “I… sorry, I juh-just-- after B-_ Bev, _ y’know…”

“I know.” Eddie nudges him towards the door. “A little privacy, ya perv.”

And he needs it, the privacy, because there are mottled bruises tracing up his sides, perfect fingerprints on his thighs. His uncle never tries to be gentle. He wouldn’t dare let any of his friends see. 

It’s a testament to his weakness. 

“See, told you he’s the world’s biggest cutie,” Richie giggles, dragging Eddie into a headlock the moment he steps out of the washroom and pinching his cheek. 

“No one was denying it.” Stan rolls his eyes, not looking up from where he’s sorting through a stack of VHS tapes.

“You’re weird,” Eddie growls, trying and failing to slap Richie’s prodding hands away. “Get offa me, bastard.”

Richie squeezes tighter and pouts. “Tell me I’m beautiful,” he says, all high-pitched and dainty, and Eddie huffs and elbows him in the gut.

“Richie, can you be normal for like, three seconds?” Ben pleads. 

“Ugh, _ no. _ Gross.”

Bill tosses a pillow at his head, but Richie catches it. “Ha, gives new meaning to the term ‘throw pillow’, huh?”

“Okay! That’s it! We’re watching _ Ghostbusters, _ ” Stan announces loudly. _ “Please _ sit down and shut up now.”

It doesn’t work. Richie just throws his hands in the air, shouts, “Who you gonna call?” and launches himself headfirst into the pile of cushions and blankets Ben and Mike are constructing.

Eddie is the last to move after the credits roll. He'd pretend to be asleep but he's just finished reprimanding Richie for loudly chomping on gummy worms and how his teeth are going to rot right out of his skull and he better fucking floss tonight. 

"Thanks, Big Bill," Richie says, stretching as he rolls out of the cushion pile they've created. "Really makes you forget about all the stress of high school when you can watch a bunch of ugly old dudes flail around helplessly on screen. Not to mention the_ suuuper _ hot ghost sex." He chortles and nudges Eddie with his toe.

"I _ know _you aren't insulting Ghostbusters right now," says Mike, openly scandalized. 

"Sorry, you're right. Slimer is too sexy. Saves the whole fucking movie."

"Ladies, put the claws away." Ben, ever the gentleman, is already collecting all the garbage they created to help Bill clean up. 

"Geez, Eds. Not even contributing your two cents to defend your favourite movie," Richie taunts. Eddie scowls at him, hunkering down under the blankets he's draped across his shoulders. 

The last thing he cares about right now is Richie trying to pick a fight. He's preoccupied with the shallow bite mark on his shoulder, tracing his fingers over it and trying to remember the feeling when he got it. He's preoccupied with the sharp ache when he shifts his hips the wrong way. 

He has to go home now and do it all over again. 

"C'mon, clean up, guys. Don’t leave Bill to do it all by himself," Stan insists, and Eddie jolts when the blanket is yanked away. 

He walks his bike, Richie strolling along beside him, as all the Losers go their separate ways into the cold night. There's a plastic bag with his wet clothes hanging off the handlebars. 

"You're lucky you didn't drown my inhaler," he says, if only to break the silence.

"Oh, fuck off, you don't even need an inhaler." 

"Maybe I do!" 

"Maybe don't stand so close to the edge next time." 

"You're an ass."

"I know!" Richie grins, big and goofy. "It's part of my charm."

_ "Ass," _ Eddie says again, as they slow to a halt at the end of his driveway. A little blue car sits casually outside the house, and everything is dark but he knows better. He knows that what's inside isn't asleep.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he offers, and Richie nods and pulls him into a hug. 

"Fare thee well, old Eddie Spaghetti," he chirps, slapping Eddie solidly between the shoulder blades. "I shall see thee in the morrow."

Then he's gone, and Eddie is left staring down his own front door like a timid squire facing off with a dragon. If he's quiet enough -- if he's careful enough -- he might be able to sleep undisturbed tonight. 

If Charlie doesn't know he's home, he can't force him to do anything. 

He steels himself and marches up to the door, holding his breath while he turns the knob -- slowly, _ slowly, _ so as not to make any noise. The house is dark. The faint yellowish glow of the light above the kitchen sink spills out into the hallway, but otherwise everything is still and silent. 

He breathes, quiet, _steady_, and takes one tentative step forward. The illusion of peace remains intact. 

His heartbeat settles down as he makes the silent trek down the darkened hall, triumphant. Maybe, for now, he can be okay.

“Eds, honey, you worried me.”

Uncle Charlie’s voice nearly startles a yelp out of him, but there’s a firm hand clamping over his mouth and an arm around his waist, dragging him backwards, towards the kitchen table.

“You were out so late,” he reprimands, as he pulls Eddie onto his lap and pins him there. “Too busy with your friends. Are your friends better than me, Eds?”

Eddie doesn’t want to justify that with a response. He shudders and squirms against the arms wrapped around his torso. _ “Don’t _ call me that,” he demands instead. That’s only for Richie. No one else gets to say his name like that. _ Especially _ not Charlie. 

Warm lips press along his jaw. “Aw, so cruel, baby. Don’t you love me?”

He thinks to scream for his mom. He’s never been _ coherent _ enough to call out for her before. He’s just working the words out of his mouth when that hand blocks them, and he’s covering his nose too and he can’t _ breathe _ and this isn’t how he wants to die, he thinks, as Charlie refuses to let go and Eddie tries to inhale a breath of air that just isn’t there. He whimpers and kicks and twists but Charlie maintains his grip all the same.

“If you wake up your mother, I’ll kill her. Do you hear me?” His Uncle never sounds so _ cold. _ It suits him much better than the sweet, fake voice he charms people with all day. And he may be afraid of his mom -- she may be off her rocker, manipulative and controlling, but she’s his _ mom _ and without her what will he have left? Eddie, lightheaded, nods slowly. The other hand holding him lifts the hem of his shirt and smooths over the expanse of his stomach. “If you tell _ anyone, _ I’ll kill one of your friends.” Eddie swears the blood in his veins turns to ice. “Nod if you understand.”

He nods again, much more vigorously.

How could he _ possibly _ prevent that? How could he keep the most important people in his life safe at all hours of the day, from a man he _ knows _ will stop at nothing to get his way? How could he protect them without _ telling _ them?

He doesn’t _ want _ to tell them. Shame burns through him fast enough to melt the cold of his fear.

“Very good. You’ll keep quiet for me, then?” The weight over his mouth and nose disappears and he sucks in a lungful of air, wheezing slightly. 

Except then it’s around his throat, and at the first little bit of pressure he bucks wildly but Charlie pins his arms and squeezes tighter, grinds up against him, and Eddie really, _ desperately _ wants his inhaler. “Now, where were we?” That sugary tone is back, burning across Eddie’s cheek as the fingers around his throat playfully squeeze and release at their leisure. “Ah, _ right. _ Do you love me?”

He stays as still as he can, trying not to give in to the slow rocking of Uncle Charlie’s hips. The pressure around his throat increases and black spots dance abruptly across his vision as his voice drops again. “I _ said, _ do you _ love _ me?”

He _ doesn’t. _ He _ couldn’t. _ He nods. He _ thinks _ he nods. Tears stream down his cheeks and soak the collar of his shirt and then he can breathe again. The hand that was choking him slides over his thigh instead, pinching and rubbing as it moves higher, and higher--

“Good,” Uncle Charlie says, smile pressed to the juncture of his neck and shoulder. “I’m glad. Maybe we can do this for real tonight.”

“W-_ what…?” _ What part of what he’s been doing wasn’t _ for real? _

“You don’t need drugs to feel good, Eds. I was just making sure you’d stay quiet.” Prodding fingers toy with the fabric of his pants, right at the crotch, and he remembers with a burst of humiliation that these are _ Bill’s clothes. _

Somehow that makes this so much worse. Like Bill will know what happened the moment he sees them. 

“But you’ll stay quiet on your own for me, right? No need for anyone to get hurt.”

He’s deposited carelessly on the bed and Uncle Charlie is on top of him before he can scramble away, like that was what he was expecting. There are fingers on his chin, forcing his face upright, and Eddie’s heart plummets when Charlie’s mouth closes over his, hot and demanding, and… and--

This isn’t how his first kiss was supposed to happen.

This _ hasn’t been _ how a _ lot _ of first things were supposed to happen.

He’s been waiting for the right moment; for the right _ person. _ There’s always a scorching guilt in his gut when he thinks about the _ right _ person, and not-- not the kind of person people _ say _it should be. It burns hotter when Charlie strips him of that decision-making power altogether. 

Maybe he took away his ability to make decisions about a _ lot _ of those kinds of things, though. 

He tries to pretend nothing is wrong when his uncle’s tongue is in his mouth -- part of him wants to retch at the thought of all the germ transmission possibilities that are being opened up. He wishes he could leave his body but he’s acutely aware of the slide of denim over his legs as Bill’s jeans are worked off of him, the heat of hands on his bare thighs. 

Charlie manhandles him onto his stomach and lifts his hips, reminding him in a too-friendly tone to stay quiet. Eddie muffles his cries and dries his tears in a pillow he vows to burn one day.

* * *


	3. So You Want to Become a...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie just wants Eddie to smile again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SOFT. These boys are SOFT. This is so SOFT.  
I'm crying real Jesus tears.

* * *

“It’s fucking freezing. This is nuts. We’re going to get fucking pneumonia and _ die,” _ Eddie bitches, tucking his gloved hands into his coat sleeves and shivering. 

“Hold onto your tits, dude. Jesus.” Richie shakes some snow out of his boot and glances around. “Well, fuck.”

“What now?”

“...Where’s the door?”

Eddie looks around, too. Everything is a vast expanse of white, interspersed sporadically with the haunting silhouettes of barren trees. There’s nothing to indicate where the clubhouse door would be, even though this is _ definitely _ the place. They’ve walked this path so many times they could do it with their eyes closed, in the middle of a hurricane. “Buried under seven billion tonnes of fucking snow, obviously. Can we go back now? I’m turning into an icicle.”

Richie’s scarf smacks him square in the face. “...Thanks, asshole.”

“Help me look,” Richie demands, kicking snow around haphazardly in the general area he seems to think the clubhouse might be. “‘Course it had to be fucking underground. Couldn’t have been a treehouse or some shit.”

Eddie does the same, but on the first kick his toes collide with something solid under the snow and he yelps, toppling over backwards. Richie’s face appears above him. “--you alright?” he’s asking, and Eddie shoots him the finger. Grinning, Richie reaches down and pulls the scarf he gave him over his whole face.

“I found the fucking door, Trashmouth,” he says, muffled, trying to pull the offending garment off altogether but just getting more tangled up.

He and Richie kneel beside the door and shove the snow away with their hands. It takes both of them to pry the thing open, since ice has formed around some of the edges, but then there’s a dark hole gaping at them from the forest floor and wouldn’t you know it -- the air coming from inside is kind of warm. Warmer than the chill of the December air, at least. Richie’s backpack hits the floor first, then he grabs Eddie and helps him onto the ladder, saying something about “Hurry, hurry, before all the warm air gets out and we die of hypothermia in a hole in the ground.”

Richie’s tall enough now to just reach up and slide the door back into place, and for a split second they’re engulfed in complete darkness. The light of a cheap plastic lantern flares to life, then one of the flashlights hanging from the ceiling. That one is dim and almost orange.

“Did you bring extra batteries?” Eddie asks, running in place in an attempt to warm up after their seemingly endless trek through the snow.

“Even better. I brought extra flashlights.” Richie unzips his backpack and pours out an amalgamation of crap -- comics, notebooks, a walkman, bags and boxes of junk food, and of course, several flashlights and lanterns.

They spend a while setting the lights up around the room, and once it’s about as bright as it would be on a typical Saturday afternoon when snow _ wasn’t _ blocking all the sunlight from getting in, they both dive for the hammock at the same time. 

They both end up on their asses. 

“Fine, _ whatever _ \-- we both fit.” Richie shrugs and tries to climb in, but Eddie grabs him by the sleeve of his coat and pulls until he falls over again.

“Not anymore, we don’t! You’re the size of a fucking mountain! You’re big enough to break it on your own.”

“Well, I’m not sitting on the fucking _ floor.” _

They push and twist and yell and swear until they’ve both squeezed into the increasingly small space of the old hammock, tuning out the ominous creaking of the beams supporting it. It’s warm enough in here that they’ve stripped off their coats and snow pants, and their boots lay abandoned in a puddle of snowmelt beneath them. 

Eddie keeps the scarf on. 

He doesn’t have words to explain it; the kind of thing that he feels about moments like these. It used to just be another part of his daily life -- the part that stood out a little more brightly than the rest. Lately, it’s like a beacon in the pitch black.

He tucks his nose into the scarf and closes his eyes while Richie tangles their legs together and sifts through the piles of books he brought along. “I’ve got fucking math homework. Can you do it for me?” He drops a book on Eddie’s lap and Eddie opens one eye to fix him with a withering look.

“What do I get for it?”

“I dunno. You can have all the Pringles?”

“...Deal,” Eddie says (he does not, in fact, get the Pringles all to himself, because their friendship has never worked like that).

At some point, Richie turns on the walkman and it takes a while of listening for Eddie to realize it’s all the songs he’s only ever secretly admitted to Richie that he likes. The opening chords of _ 99 Luftballons _ fills the clubhouse and he throws Richie’s notebook back at him, the last question in his homework left unfinished. “You’re a bastard.”

With a knowing glint in his eyes, Richie licks his lips and turns to the next page of his Wonder Woman comic. “Am I, now?”

“You made a mixtape of all my guilty pleasure songs!”

“That sentence should end at ‘You made a mixtape’,” Richie asserts, tossing the notebook back. _ “So _ romantic, Eddie Spaghetti.”

“You have to destroy it.”

He shakes his head vehemently, eyes still bright, and Eddie cannot _ fucking _ believe this jerk is his best friend. “No way.” He flutters his eyelashes playfully behind his coke-bottle glasses. “How about I write your name on it, surrounded by little hearts, instead?”

Eddie reaches out to snatch the walkman but Richie is too fast. He lifts it high into the air and twists away from Eddie’s clawing hands, and-- _ oh fuck, _ Eddie thinks, or maybe says out loud, as the hammock flips over and deposits them on the floor.

He bites his lip when he lands right on the black-and-blue handprint bruise on his hip. “Fuck,” he says, definitely out loud this time. A pack of Skittles falls out of the hammock and lands on his head, like an afterthought, the brightly-coloured candies exploding across the clubhouse floor as it goes. “Great, now we’re gonna have mice.”

Richie doesn’t respond. The music playing from the walkman gets louder. _ “Yoda shindig lied for dick,” _ Richie belts out, already standing -- jumping, actually -- and swinging wildly around the clubhouse, a bright smile on his face as he stares Eddie down.

Eddie, taken aback, just says, “That’s gibberish.”

“The whole song is gibberish.” Richie shrugs.

“It’s… _ German.” _ Eddie isn’t sure if Richie actually doesn’t know that or if he’s just fucking with him. Regardless, Richie continues to yell nonsense and wave his arms around like he’s fending off a swarm of wasps.

The bark of laughter startles him, but once he starts to laugh, he can’t _ stop. _ He’s breathless, clutching his stomach, and he only realizes as he wipes his eyes that Richie has stopped dancing (if you could call it that) and is just watching him. He’s about to ask what in the fresh _ fuck _ Richie is doing (besides making a fool of himself), but Richie speaks first.

“Aha! See, I knew you were still capable of joy!” He pumps a fist into the air. “Big Bill owes me five bucks.”

“What?”

“Okay, you’re right. He didn’t actually bet me anything. I tried to talk him into it but he just said, ‘It’s winter, Richie, everyone is miserable in the winter’,” he mocks. “Which, for the record, is a fucking _ lie. _ Winter is the _ best.” _

Ever eloquent, Eddie repeats, “What?”

“Dance with me, Eds. C’mon.” Richie ignores him totally and hauls him to his feet, and Eddie tries to ignore the way his stomach turns at the sound of the nickname. His stomach turns at a lot of things now. 

Being touched is a big one, but it’s _ different _ with his friends. As long as he knows who it is that has their hands on him, it’s okay. So when Richie curls a hand around his wrist and an arm around his waist and starts swaying to _ Oh L’Amour, _ he just throws his head back and laughs more, clinging to Richie’s shoulder. “This is _ not _ a slow-dancing song,” he says just in time for the beat to pick up.

“That rule is made-up and also stupid,” Richie scoffs. Eddie smiles wider.

  
  
  


“What did you do?” Eddie asks, touching the side of his neck as he stares at himself in the mirror. He’s still stark-naked, but that’s somehow become less and less of a problem for him. He’s been forced to become accustomed to his own nudity because Uncle Charlie is insatiable. “What did you _ do?” _ he demands, louder, and in the doorway Charlie shrugs. He’s already dressed back up his usual well-tailored outfit -- right down to the fitted vest and the golden chain of a pocket watch shining against the brown fabric. 

“Never seen a hickey before?” he teases, and Eddie (still a mess, still naked, seething with pent-up frustrations) rounds on him.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Charlie’s face goes dark. He captures Eddie’s wrist with one hand and uses the other to shove him backwards, until he collides painfully with the edge of the bathroom counter. “I just want people to know you belong to someone,” he coos, in a voice that’s so jarringly different from the way he’s handling Eddie that it makes his head spin. “Don’t you want them to know?”

_ No, _ he wants to say. Or maybe, _ yes. _ He doesn’t know anymore.

How could he ever, possibly, even _ begin _ to tell other people about the kind of things he lets his uncle do to him? 

Uncle Charlie leaves him there, dazed and sore, and when he hears the front door opening, announcing his mother’s arrival, he snaps out of it and makes a mad dash for his bedroom. He swears he can hear Charlie laughing somewhere in the house.

This is the beginning of his winter break. If he had to go to school tomorrow, he’d be _ beyond _ fucked. There’s no way for him to hide the enormous purple mark Charlie left on his throat. There’s no way to deny what it is. 

Did he do that on purpose? Wait until Eddie didn’t have to go to class so he could mark him up however he wanted without getting caught? His ears burn. Not for the first time, he thinks about how unfair this is.

Something else occurs to him, as he sits curled up at the foot of his bed in his flannel pyjamas. He’s supposed to go to Ben’s house tomorrow. They’re all supposed to meet up there and try out the Atari he got as an early Christmas gift.

And there’s _ no fucking way _ he can go like this. 

He hides his face in his knees and cries, big, gasping sobs muffled only slightly by the fabric of his pyjama pants.

His friends are his only safe haven, and he can’t even have _ that. _

* * *


	4. There Goes My...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as an aside, if you comment on my fics and don't get a response, I want you to know that I REALLY appreciate comments and look forward to them all day, but my inbox currently has over 200 messages in it so the delayed response is just because of that. PLEASE don't let that deter you from commenting -- I get so sad when I don't get comments on chapters.

* * *

“I’m very grateful for your hospitality, Sonia,” Uncle Charlie is saying. Eddie listens intently, his bedroom door opened just a crack so he can catch the fragments of conversation drifting down the hall. “You’re a good sister. The best.”

His mom says something unintelligible.

“Yeah,” Charlie says, but his tone becomes duller, suddenly. “And I was right. I will need to stay in Derry a while longer, but I’d just hate to impose, y’know?” Eddie’s heart taps out a rhythm he can feel in his throat. He crosses his fingers and prays his uncle is gearing up to say he’s moving out. Prays so hard it makes his head hurt, eyes squeezed shut. “I’d like to contribute, if I can. I was thinking about getting a job here.”

“Lots of places in the strip mall hiring part-time.”

“So it’s alright with you if I stick around for a while?”

There are a few moments of silence before Eddie’s mother speaks, softer than Eddie thinks she’s ever spoken to him. “You’re my brother, Charlie. And you’re going through a lot with Vesta right now. You could stay here for free, for all I care.” Her chair creaks under the pressure of her enormous weight. “I appreciate you helping keep an eye on my Eddie, anyway. You know how I worry.”

“I do.”

“I trust you with him. Gives me a chance to get out and do things without having to take him along.” And for once in his miserable fucking life, Eddie _ wishes _ his mom would make him run errands with her. 

“He and I get along. We always have,” Uncle Charlie says cheerfully. Eddie closes his bedroom door, as quietly as possible, and crawls back into bed. 

He has the mixtape Richie made him -- he’d begrudgingly accepted it as an early Christmas present after their clubhouse adventure last week, and he plugs in his ratty old headphones and plays the music so loud his mother would smash the damn thing out of concern for his eardrums. Unlike Richie, he doesn’t have a television in his room because it’s ‘bad for his eyes’, but he _ does _ have roughly the same size comic collection as Richie. And it’s all he’s had for the last few days, trapped in his house with nowhere better to go.

The routine is simple: spend all day hiding in his room, reading and listening to his music. If he has to leave the room, he keeps a blanket around his shoulders so his mom doesn’t _ see, _ complaining of the cold (she’s cranked the heat way up because of this). At some point, his mom leaves, or falls asleep in front of the television, and he knows because Uncle Charlie comes into his room and at this point, like a conditioned response, Eddie just goes limp and kind of lets his mind leave his body at the sight of him. 

He takes handfuls of pills periodically throughout the day. He couldn’t identify a single one of them if he was offered a million dollars to do so.

He isn’t eating or drinking nearly as much as he knows he should, and it shows in the protrusion of his ribs and the way his hands shake when Charlie tips another cocktail of medication into them. Or maybe the latter is fear.

This is not a routine he wants to become accustomed to. He can’t stop thinking about it, staring blankly at the first page of a tattered comic without processing anything in front of him. He plays it back and loops it through his mind again and again and again, chest twisting tighter in discomfort each time, looking for a way out in all the sinister simplicity.

Movement in his peripheral vision makes him jump, turning his head so fast his neck cracks and there’s his uncle, smiling as he closes the door behind him.

“Sonia has some last-minute Christmas shopping to do,” he explains, and without even wanting to be Eddie has gone pliant atop the blankets, because maybe his body realizes it’s just easier if he relaxes. If he pretends it’s not happening.

He turns off the walkman because he doesn’t want to associate something he holds dear with the things that are about to happen.

Charlie sits on the edge of the bed, one hand curling over Eddie’s thigh as the other retrieves the little bottle of lube from the pocket of his vest. “You’re so good to me,” he says, and Eddie shudders, eyes carefully blank.

“My wife, Vesta, she thinks there’s something wrong with me.” The hand on his thigh squeezes tighter -- tight enough to hurt, but Eddie bites his lip and stares at the ceiling and tries not to feel anything. “You don’t think that, do you?”

Charlie’s hand slides up, towards his stomach, then dips under the band of his pants. He hates being so aware of everything happening to him. It occurs to him that he’s expected to answer.

“No,” he whispers, and Charlie kisses him.

He’s in the shower and the washroom door opens. He doesn’t realize how frightened that makes him until his lungs burn from lack of oxygen, his whole body tense as he watches the shadow on the other side of the curtain.

Then Charlie is pushing it aside, stark naked, and stepping into the shower behind him.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Eddie asks, forcing himself to breathe, just _ breathe, _ this is not a good place or time to pass out.

“Missed you,” Charlie says by way of explanation, bending to wrap his arms around Eddie’s torso and Eddie goes rigid again when he feels what’s pressing against his back.

There’s no way -- there’s no fucking way, not when Charlie_ just _ finished with him not fifteen minutes ago, and he was literally in the process of cleaning himself out when he was interrupted. He can’t do this for a second time in an hour. 

But he doesn’t exactly get a choice.

“How are you feeling today?” Stan asks, and Eddie can’t help but notice how clever the Losers were to send someone they know Eddie’s mom doesn’t actively despise. Not that she hasn’t found anything _ wrong _ with Stan -- but at least he’s not _ Richie. _

She isn’t home yet, but it’s the thought that counts. 

He’s got the blanket draped around his shoulders and he stands in the doorway breathing in fresh air for the first time in days, so consumed with the idea of being outside that he almost forgets to answer. The truth would be that he’s feeling worse than usual, because Uncle Charlie just forced himself onto him _ twice _ in one day and it makes him sore in unmentionable places and sick to his stomach.

“I’m okay,” he lies. “Why? What’s up?”

“Richie wants to know if you’re up for sledding today. It’s okay if not. We know how sick you’ve been.” If the way he peers into the house over Eddie’s shoulder is any indication, he must think it’s just another ploy cooked up by his mother to manipulate him into staying home with her. He doesn’t have the heart to explain that it was _ his _ lie. 

“Just sledding?” he asks. If it’s only sledding, that means they’ll be outdoors the whole time. If he’s outdoors, he can wear a scarf and he won’t have to take it off and no one will _ know _ and he can taste freedom just for a short while.

Stan nods, and Eddie swears he couldn’t be more excited for all the good news in the world. He finally has a chance to get the _ fuck _ out of here. “Okay! The hill behind Costello?”

“Yeah. Everyone else is already on their way. I can wait for you to get ready,” Stan offers. 

Eddie moves faster than he thinks he’s moved all week, digging through his drawers for long johns and warm socks, knocking down several other things in his haste to get his coat. He practically trips into his boots and grabs the scarf Richie lent him the same day he gave him the mixtape, the thick, red, woolen one that’s guaranteed to hide the hickey. 

When he finally stumbles out onto the porch, his breath freezes in his lungs at the sight of Charlie sitting on the step beside Stan, chatting easily with him.

“What are you doing?” he asks quietly, afraid of the consequences of involving Stan in his problems.

“You have such a diverse and interesting group of friends!” Uncle Charlie exclaims, standing and clapping Stan on the shoulder. Stan is smiling. Why is Stan smiling? What did Charlie do? “I really can’t say enough about your hair, Stanley. Mine used to look just the same, when I was a little younger than you. How I miss that. _ Beautiful _curls.”

“We have to go,” Eddie says around the fear clogging his throat -- the need to scream ‘get away from him’ and do something to rescue his friend, who is too kind and too soft and too _ vulnerable _ and just the kind of target Charlie would choose. Would he, if Eddie weren’t around?

The thought makes him want to vomit. He’d never wish that on Stan.

The walk to Costello and the market is hazy at best, but his head has cleared a bit by the time they’ve crossed behind the buildings and the hill comes into view, dotted with figures in bright coats and snowsuits. Stan says something to him, concern leaking into his voice, about Eddie actually being sick and how maybe he should’ve stayed home.

“Huh?” He blinks. “No, I’ve just been--” Maybe he’s planning to make some excuse about how nice the fresh air is after being cooped up in his house for several days, but he doesn’t get a chance because he’s being bowled over by Richie tackling him in a hug. There’s an explosion of snow around them as they topple to the ground and after the initial shock that made his heart skip a beat, Eddie laughs and rolls them over to shove Richie’s face in the snow. 

Richie beats a fist on the ground. “Mercy! Mercy!” he cries, even though they both know he could easily throw Eddie off of him. When he lets go, Richie sits up and spits a mouthful of half-melted snow at him.

“That’s disgusting! That’s how you transmit mono virus. You want me to get fucking mono?” Eddie shrieks, tossing a handful of snow right back, and they don’t end up joining in the sledding for a full twenty minutes, too caught up in throwing snowballs and trying to wrestle each other, but Eddie doesn’t miss the way Stan rolls his eyes as he leaves them there in favour of heading up the hill after Bill. 

He’s soaked to the skin when they both collapse, panting, staring at the cloudy sky as they try desperately to catch their breath. He’s in a lot of pain and he’s had a horrible week (and a horrible few months, and honestly a horrible life) but he’s smiling so much his cheeks hurt and when he turns his head and makes eye contact with Richie, whose overgrown hair is dripping wet where it sticks out from under his toque, face flushed, he feels okay. He’ll be okay, he thinks, as long as he always has this to come back to.

“Race you to the top of the hill,” Richie says, and without warning he’s up and running for the hill as fast as he can with all his wet winter gear weighing him down. 

“That’s not fair, dickwad!” Eddie shouts after him, much slower in the process of standing up because half the muscles in his lower abdomen twinge in protest. 

Richie beats him to the top by a longshot, where Ben is in the middle of talking everyone into a race that involves the prize of choosing their next hangout, and Mike is countering with an argument about the sled shortage (only four sleds for six people).

“Three at a time, then, and the winners of each race face off against each other,” Richie offers, voice cracking at least twice, and he doesn’t often look embarrassed but he sure does now, loudly clearing his throat. 

It just reminds Eddie that something is wrong with him, and that he’s falling behind the others somehow. Their voices are changing and they’re all taller and _ fucking Richie _ started growing chest hair this summer which they _ all _ agreed is gross but it’s not _ fair. _ It’s not fair because Eddie wants to grow up, too, and not the way Charlie is making him.

“Who’s going first?” Stan asks, and they all look around at each other because they haven’t worked out that part of the plan yet. 

“I need you to win so I can beat you in the next round and we can all go to the arcade on Tuesday,” Richie hisses in his ear, and Eddie twists around to stare at him. 

“What makes you think you’d beat me?”

“Uh, first off, I am a sledding _ master. _ I know all the tricks to reaching top speed. Second, I am like way fucking heavier than you so obviously gravity would be on my side. I don’t stand a fucking chance against Ben.” 

Instead of pointing out how rude that is, on all fronts, Eddie shoves his shoulder and counters, “How about I win _ both _ races and we go to the arcade on Tuesday?”

Richie’s eyes light up behind his glasses, which are so crooked Eddie is surprised he can see anything. “Oh, Eds, you’d do that for me?”

“Of course,” Eddie says, shrugging, and why wouldn’t he? Richie likes spending time in the arcade. Eddie likes spending time with Richie. It would be a win-win situation, provided Eddie finds some way to keep his throat hidden the whole time.

“Ready?” Bill asks, positioned behind Stan with his hands on his shoulders, prepared to push him down the hill.

“Too bad you can never beat the master.” Richie winks as Bill shouts, “Go!” and then Eddie is flying down the hill, the wind stinging his face, leaning back as far as he dares and feeling himself go faster, _ faster, _ until the ground levels out beneath him and without gravity dragging him down, the sled skids to a steady stop. 

He stands to look behind him and sees Mike at the top of the hill, jumping and hollering, and he knows that Ben won. It doesn’t matter -- he didn’t expect to win, and it isn’t what he came here for. He wanted to be with his friends, even if only for a while, and it really couldn’t get any better than this.

In the end, it’s Ben against Richie for the final race, and when Richie winks and lightheartedly asks Eddie for a good-luck kiss, he gets a faceful of snow, which sends Mike toppling over because he’s laughing so hard, and then Bill has to push Ben down the hill while Mike regains his composure and lo and behold: Richie wins.

“Arcade on Tuesday, motherfuckers!” he all but screams, throwing both hands into the air after he reaches the bottom of the hill first. 

“Beep beep, R-Richie. We’re going to the ar-arcade,” Bill concedes. “The whole world doesn’t need to know.”

Stan’s already climbing onto one of the sleds that was left at the top while Richie and Ben raced each other, trying to drag Bill down with him. “Your parents said we can come over tonight, right?”

Eddie’s eyes go wide. Since when was going to Bill’s in their plans? He’ll be expected to participate, which means taking off his winter gear, which means taking off Richie’s scarf, which means -- the mark on the side of his neck _ burns. _

“Come on,” Mike’s nudging him in the direction of the second sled, and it’s like he’s on autopilot as they both squeeze onto it and Mike pushes them off down the hillside. There’s no joy in the way the wind whips his cheeks this time.

“Guys, I can’t,” he starts, too quiet, and he’s almost dizzy. “I can’t go anywhere tonight,” he says, a little louder this time, and Ben squints at him.

“Why not?”

“I just… my--” No, he doesn’t have a good excuse. He licks his lips and glances around frantically like the answer is buried in the snow at their feet.

Bill waves a hand. “You d-do-don’t have to stick around long, but I-I was gonna call Bev wh-when we got in. Y’know, i-if you wanna say hi.”

He blinks a few times, maybe too slowly, maybe not at all, and finds all the rest of the Losers staring at him. “I-I’m supposed to…”

“If you’re still sick, you should go home and rest. All this activity can’t be good for you,” Stan tells him, and he _ knows _ but he _ isn’t _ sick and he’s almost positive Stan knows that, too. They should _ all _ know that; his mom has been lying about him being sick since he was a toddler. This is nothing new, even if the lie came from him this time. 

He nods. “Yeah, I think I should. Sorry, Bill. Tell Bev she needs to get her ass back here sooner.”

Bill pulls him into a hug that’s maybe too tight, but Eddie just grins and slaps his shoulder and says, “Oh, great fucking idea. Share my germs. Don’t fucking complain to me when you’re bedridden on Christmas morning.”

“Yeah, wh-whatever.” Bill pushes him back with a laugh and then he’s being wrapped up in Ben’s embrace, then Mike and Stan and--

“You planning to keep my scarf forever or something?” Richie asks, shoving his toque off to muss up his hair, and in retaliation Eddie reaches up and yanks on a handful of his curls. 

“Yeah, I fucking am, actually,” he spits, pulling harder when Richie tries to push him down into the snow again. It doesn’t help, and they both ignore Stan complaining about making him worse when they go down, and Eddie is already soaking fucking wet so he really can’t care about Richie shoving snow down the back of his coat while Stan tries to mother them. 

He pulls Richie’s hat down over his eyes. “Good. It’s a nice fucking colour on you,” Richie says, getting in the final blow by slapping a handful of snow right in the middle of his forehead. “Walk you home?” Richie holds a hand out to help him to his feet -- their friends have already begun the trek to Bill’s, heading around the hill, away from the market. 

“I can find my own way to my own fucking house.”

“Fine, damn, Eds. Maybe chivalry _ is _ dead.”

Eddie flashes him a goofy smile and pushes him towards the other Losers. “Tell Bev I’m sorry I couldn’t talk. She can call me whenever.” 

“Ooh-la-la!” Richie waggles his eyebrows and makes kissy faces.

A snowball collides with his retreating back and he just flips Eddie off over his shoulder.

“I thought I made my point perfectly clear.” Eddie is intercepted the second he walks in the door, shoved face-first against the wall in the entryway with one arm twisted up behind his back. “And you thought it would be a good idea to just leave anyway?”

Eddie cries out in pain when Charlie twists his arm harder, mind flashing back to the time he broke it and all the events surrounding that incident that he wishes he could forget.

There are so many parts of his life he just wants to _ forget. _

“You were supposed to stay home with me. I never said you could leave.” Eddie can’t help the tears that leak out of his eyes, biting his lip to try to keep them in. “Did you forget who you belong to?” Charlie asks, too soft for his actions, lips against his ear.

Eddie shakes his head vehemently. 

“Who do you belong to, Eds?” The scarf he’s wearing is removed slowly, tossed on the floor somewhere. Charlie’s nose presses to the side of his throat, right above the hickey, and he inhales deeply.

He doesn’t want to answer that because he doesn’t want it to be true. He doesn’t think he’ll be given a choice in the matter. 

“Eddie, baby, who do you belong to?” Charlie purrs, his breath shifting from under his jaw to the back of his neck. He presses a small kiss there. “Answer me,” he says, suddenly harsh.

Eddie shakes. Opens his mouth but nothing comes out. He squeezes his eyes shut and prays that he’ll open them and be back at the hill behind the Costello market, with Richie’s hands on him instead. 

Charlie bites him -- _ bites _ him -- teeth digging into the soft skin at the nape of his neck and Eddie _ yelps. _ It takes several agonizing seconds for him to let go, and even then he laves his tongue over the shallow mark he left there. A sob bubbles up out of Eddie’s throat.

“This doesn’t have to be difficult.” The grip on his arm relaxes, if only slightly. “Tell me who you belong to.”

_ “You,” _ Eddie says through another sob, shoulders heaving.

“That’s right.” The hat comes off next. Fingers comb through his hair, but stop abruptly at the sound of a car door slamming outside.

Charlie half-drags him down the hall and shoves him so hard into his bedroom that he tips over onto the floor. The door slams shut behind him.

It’s strange, because despite everything all he can think about right now is that Richie’s scarf is lying abandoned on the floor in the hall, entirely out of his reach despite being so close, and that he’s worried Charlie will _ do _ something. He doesn’t know what. Hide it? Throw it away? 

Does he know it’s Richie’s?

Does he know the way Eddie’s thought about Richie? What would he do if he did? 

It’s _ stupid, _ because a _ stupid scarf _ gets him more worked up than anything else. He’s dripping melted snow all over the carpet, and his fingers are still numb from the cold, but he doesn’t move from his spot on the floor for a long, long time.

* * *


	5. I Don't Wanna Be Your...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie would protect his friends even if he had to lay his life down to do so. He knows that now, when he makes small sacrifices that feel enormous just to keep them out of things for as long as possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW because this chapter is a little more explicit than the rest and more liberal with the sexual language by a longshot.

* * *

Eddie has never given anyone a blowjob before.

He’s thought about it. He’d always kind of assumed that maybe, one day, it could happen -- if he ever sorted out that warm feeling he gets in his chest when Richie smiles at him, or the little jump in his nerves whenever they’re touching each other. If he could get over the nagging voice in his head insisting he can’t _ think _ like that; he needs to find a _ girl _ to do those things with. Hell, he even dreamt about it (once, about a year ago, and he hadn’t been able to look Bill in the eye for a week).

The leper It sent after him had offered him one.

So it’s not like the idea has never occurred to him. He’s just never _ done _ it.

Until now.

He thinks he’s brushed his teeth at least six times. Could have been more. He threw up at one point so he started all over again. 

No matter what he does, he can’t seem to calm down. Nausea crawls up his throat again and his chest heaves with barely-suppressed sobs.

Uncle Charlie left the house some time ago. He had to go to work, he’d said.

_ Thanks, Eds, _ he’d said. 

Eddie is _ so sick _ of crying. He’s so fucking sick of being miserable. He’s sick of being in pain, and irritable, and _ scared. _ He’s sick of coming up with excuses and juggling lies and of the way Bill stares sometimes, like he’s trying to solve a particularly uncooperative Rubik’s cube. 

He wishes he could just die like this, curled up on the bathroom floor, and that thought sends dread spiking through his veins.

He didn’t survive the reign of terror of a crazy killer clown just to off himself in his bathroom in a moment of weakness.

How he ends up on the phone is beyond him. He isn’t quite aware of dialling, but he has the phone pressed to his ear and it’s ringing, and he doesn’t have to wonder long about what the fuck he’s doing. 

“Hello?” Bev’s voice coming through the receiver is like water in a drought.

“Bev, hi!” he chirps, sounding a million times more cheerful than he felt just a second ago. “It’s Eddie.”

“Aww, Eddie, I miss you,” Bev says, soothing and sincere. “Lucky I got the phone. My uncle’s sister just got here with her kids and everyone else is outside helping them unload the car. We’re having some kind of big Christmas gathering at our house this year. Everyone’s sleeping over so we can open gifts together in the morning or something like that.”

“That sounds really nice,” Eddie says, and he means it. He wonders often if Derry is just cursed to be a miserable shithole, because he never could have imagined something like that before. His Christmases have always consisted of him and his mom sitting on the couch in the living room, while he unwraps a couple of the most boring and practical gifts in the world. 

And he doesn’t mean to sound ungrateful, because, sure, wool socks come in handy sometimes, but for fuck’s sake, Ben got an _ Atari _ as an _ early _ gift this year because his mom was just too excited to keep it from him any longer.

He’d kill for some kind of big happy family gathering out of a fairytale if only to counterbalance the monotonous bullshit he deals with every year. 

He smiles and hopes Bev can hear it through the phone, “I’m glad you’re doing alright, Bev. Really. After all that…”

Bev laughs, and it’s all soft and low and Eddie misses her so much because he doesn’t think he’s ever met a stronger person in his _ life _ and she made _ him _ feel stronger when she was around. “You’re adorable, you know that? I’m great now, Eddie. It’s sweet of you to be concerned, though.”

Eddie’s pretty sure he flushes red to the tips of his ears, but rather than insist he is _ not _ adorable, he traces a finger along a crack in the linoleum beside him, where he’s slumped against the wall in the kitchen. “I just wanted to call and say I’m sorry I couldn’t be at Bill’s when they all called you the other day. And to wish you a Merry Christmas.”

There’s a flurry of commotion from the other end of the line. “Uh-oh. Here they come. I should go. Merry Christmas, Eddie. Call again soon, okay?”

“Okay,” Eddie says, and the line goes dead.

He doesn’t hang the phone up for a long while. He doesn’t move from his spot, staring at the same crack in the linoleum and thinking about how _ happy _ Beverly sounds now. He’s happy for her. He wants to be, at least. He’s a little busy wallowing in his own anguish.

He hopes one day, he sounds that happy again.

He hopes he doesn’t kill himself before then.

  
  


He’s been digging around his room for at nearly an hour now. The dresser drawers are all dumped out on the floor and he’s sifting through an increasingly large pile of garments he’s knocked off of hangers in his desperate search.

It has to be here _ somewhere. _ He could swear on his _ life _ he owns a turtleneck, even if he’s never fucking worn it because he fucking hates those things. It has to be around, and he _ has _ to find it, because he’s supposed to go to the arcade today and while faded, the oversized hickey on his throat is still _ obvious. _

_There it is._ He could cry from relief, yanking the dark blue knitted shirt off a hanger at the very back of the closet. He’d never wear something like this because it’s uncomfortable as fuck -- the material is _ awful _ and makes his neck itch. But Richie wants to go to the arcade, and Eddie wants to be there with him, and he wants to avoid his uncle altogether, even if just for one day. Maybe he can stay out so late that he doesn’t have to deal with Charlie tonight.

Maybe he can sleep over at someone’s house. His heart soars and he yanks the damn thing over his head, too elated to be bothered by the scratchy fabric around his throat. 

Maybe he can go just one day without unwanted hands all over him.

“Where are you off to, Eds?” Charlie asks as he tugs on his boots in the entryway. 

“Arcade,” is all he says, because he doesn’t _ want _ to answer him but he knows there are consequences if he doesn’t.

Uncle Charlie stands from the couch and stretches. “I’ll drive you,” he offers, all warm smiles, and Eddie grimaces.

“No, thanks. I’ll walk.”

His mom’s face pops out of the kitchen doorway. “You better not be going anywhere with that filthy little Tozier boy,” she says, clearly having been tipped off by the mention of the arcade. But she doesn’t stop there, even when Eddie shakes his head, eyes wide and innocent. “You should just stay home. It’s too cold to go anywhere. You’ll make yourself more sick.”

Eddie bites back a retort about just how sick he _ isn’t. _ “I’m just going to spend time with Bill and Stan, mommy. I’ve hardly seen them since our last day of school.”

Sonia frowns but she doesn’t argue further. Eddie wonders if she’s remembering the last time she _ really _ tried to stop him from seeing his friends. He bets she doesn’t want another outburst like that from him. “Bring something to clean your hands with. Those machines are just filthy.”

Charlie brushes past him to take his coat off its hook, and Eddie blanches. “I said I’ll walk.”

“Too cold for that.” Charlie winks and ushers him out the door, but not before Eddie can reach up and snatch Richie’s scarf from where it’s tucked into the coat rack among a plethora of other bits of winter gear. 

Out on the porch, he slaps Charlie’s hand away and marches off across the lawn, fully intending to just walk anyway. 

“Eddie, get in the car,” says Charlie pleasantly, but he staunchly ignores him and continues to the road. “You know,” his uncle adds, louder and colder, “your friend Stan is _ awfully _ cute, don’t you think?”

He pauses with a foot off the curb, head spinning. “...What?”

“It’d be a pity if something were to happen to him. He’s just so_ innocent._ Or maybe that’s just a ploy to appeal to my--”

“Don’t you fucking touch him,” Eddie hisses, face contorting in anger as he turns on his heel and storms back towards his uncle, raising a hand to shove his chest. It doesn’t do anything -- Charlie stands his ground easily and Eddie makes a frustrated noise. “Don’t even fucking _ think _ about--”

“Then get in the fucking car.” Charlie leaves no room for argument, his fingers twisting into Eddie’s hair and _ pulling _ as he drags him closer to the passenger door. It swings open and Eddie lands awkwardly on the seat, reeling.

Uncle Charlie doesn’t lock the doors as he pulls out of the driveway, but he doesn’t have to because he’s given Eddie more than enough incentive to sit nicely and cooperate with him.

They roll to a stop only partway to the arcade, in the back of a lot near the strip mall. Everything around them is grey-tinged and dull, empty in the dead of winter when everyone prefers to stay home and stay warm. He unbuckles Eddie’s seat belt and drags him onto his lap, and Eddie keeps his mouth firmly closed because now Stanley’s well-being is on the line, too.

It’s infinitely worse that Charlie doesn’t just drop him off at the arcade.

No, things could never be that simple.

He escorts him inside, a hand on his shoulder, steering him through the dim, overcrowded interior towards where his friends are piling their coats on a table in the corner. “Hey, Eddie’s friends. Nice to see you again! Hi, Stan,” he says, pointedly, and Eddie knows he’s the only one who detects the hint of cruelty behind it. “What’s in the plans for today?”

Stan smiles at him and Eddie wants to puke. “Not much. Just beating Richie’s high score on _ Street Fighter _ and then maybe a movie, if we have enough money left.”

“It’s impossible to beat my high score on _ Street Fighter,” _ Richie scoffs.

Charlie continues to smile and he looks deranged, doesn’t he? Doesn’t anyone else see that? “Well, here,” he chirps, reaching into his coat pocket for his wallet and handing a few bills to Stan, “for your movie. So you don’t have to worry.”

Eddie’s still a little weak and dizzy from the car ride over -- wants desperately to duck into the washroom and clean the bodily fluids rapidly drying in his boxers. Charlie hadn’t let him clean up after. His hand comes back to his shoulder and applies too much pressure, _ too much _\--

He barely bites back a whimper, forcing himself not to flinch away. Whatever game his uncle is playing is extremely carefully calculated. Deliberate. _ If you so much as give them a _ ** _hint _ ** _ about what’s been going on, I’ll make good on all my promises. How far can I push you now? _

All of the Losers’ faces light up, gratitudes and praises spilling from their lips, and he only realizes Charlie is gone when Ben throws an arm around him and says, “Man, your uncle is awesome. I’m kinda jealous.”

_ You shouldn’t be, _ Eddie wants to say, but he bites his tongue and smiles, shedding his coat to add to the pile on their table. 

Bill sets aside enough money to get them each a ticket for _ Home Alone _ later, then a little extra for concessions. Eddie lets Richie trade his cash in for arcade tokens for him, because he doesn’t want to go anywhere near it knowing it might be from what Charlie gave them.

He hardly uses them. He spends half the time they’re actually in the arcade just leaning against whatever game Richie is playing, lost in his own headspace. Stan comes by and passes him a container of fries at one point, but he doesn’t touch them, just holds them out to Richie every couple seconds.

“Fry me,” Richie demands, opening his mouth and angling his face towards Eddie without taking his eyes off the screen. 

Eddie rolls his eyes and shoves a handful of fries into his mouth. There’s a decrescendo of music from the game and Richie doesn’t miss a beat after losing, eyes darting to where Eddie is staring at the wall opposite them and saying, “Okay, seriously, what the fuck is up with you?”

“Nothing,” Eddie says automatically.

“Well that’s a fucking lie.”

“I’m just tired. Jesus. It’s all shitty and cold and dull outside, okay! Can’t I just be fucking miserable like the weather?” Eddie snaps, and Richie scowls at him.

“Well _ forgive me _ for trying to be a good friend, jerk-ass,” he grumbles, adjusting his glasses. “Clearly puberty is fucking your hormones up worse than the rest of us. Gonna get your first period soon?”

Eddie throws the rest of the fries at him, and he doesn’t know if he means it to hurt him or not -- not that it would hurt anyway -- but it’s enough for him to gasp at his own action and retreat, making a break for the door. Richie catches him just as he starts to push it open, placing a hand over his. “Hey, woah. I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry. Don’t leave.” It takes a couple seconds to process that a real, actual _ apology _ just came out of Richie’s mouth.

“Wow,” he says, gaze disbelieving. “Can’t believe Trashmouth is capable of saying those words out loud.”

Richie lets out a bark of laughter. “Fuck you, dude.”

“Thought you were too busy fucking my mom.”

This only makes Richie laugh louder, slinging an arm around his shoulders and leading him back into the crowd of kids trying to escape the winter chill. “Sure am. Let me show you how to cheat at _ Mario.” _

* * *


	6. Strait-jacket...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some truths come to light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for the usual stuff, plus panic attacks, non-consensual drug use (like the medical kind lol), choking/strangling, hella abuse, homophobia, vomiting, uuuuhhhh probably other stuff. Eddie comes from a family of wildly manipulative abusers; oh boy!

* * *

Nothing changes.

For _ months, _ it’s the same cycle -- the same routine. After winter break he gets the sweet sanctuary of school back (though _ sanctuary _ is definitely a stretch with his plummeting grades and the threatening presence of what’s left of the Bowers Gang, determined to target any Loser they can catch alone). On Saturday nights Bill’s house is a haven. 

The weather gets a little warmer, but Eddie doesn’t get less miserable. 

It’s like with every passing day, Charlie becomes a little more unhinged. A little more bold.

Eddie’s mom is_ home. _ She’s _ awake. _ She’s in the kitchen cooking something for lunch, _ right down the hall _ from Eddie’s room, and his uncle still has the balls to strip him down and use him, breath hot and wet against his cheek.

Eddie makes a sound -- a tiny, repressed moan, and then he can’t breathe.

“Quiet,” Charlie snaps, over the distant sound of water running in the kitchen. His fingers are too hot around Eddie’s throat, cutting off all his sounds but cutting off his air, too, and his eyes bulge when he realizes Charlie isn’t going to let go. 

He tries to tell him to stop, _ let go, _ but he _ can’t make any noise _ outside of a pitiful, high-pitched wheezing when he tries and fails to inhale. One of his hands grasps Charlie’s wrist and he attempts to pull his whole arm away, but Charlie is so much stronger than him and Eddie swears he just squeezes _ harder, _ if anything.

His vision swims, black spots exploding in his periphery, and this is it -- he’s going to die like this. His body screams for oxygen. Charlie’s hips stutter frantically against him and this is the worst possible way to die. He’d rather be eaten by a fucking sewer clown than suffocate at the hands of his uncle while having _ extremely unwanted _ sex with him. 

He wakes up naked under the covers, come still dripping out of him, feeling like someone punched him in the throat. He needs his inhaler, even though the incident is long over.

If he looks closely in the washroom mirror, there’s a bluish outline from Charlie’s hand around his neck.

“Mom,” he says when they’re alone in the kitchen, while he’s washing dishes after Uncle Charlie leaves for work. His throat burns, and not just from the bruises, however faint. His eyes burn, too. His voice is high and weak and when he turns to look at her over his shoulder, eyes glistening, her full attention is on him and he knows he should.

He _ should. _

“Uncle Charlie’s been having sex with me,” he says, and it comes out so much more calm than he’d anticipated.

Sonia Kaspbrak stares for what might be an eternity at her son. She puts her book down, standing slowly and approaching him like he’s a wild animal. “Eddie, honey,” she coos, “you can’t think like that.”

“Like… huh?” He turns fully, so his back is to the counter, and when she stops in front of him her hands cup his face.

“You’re just my little boy. You can’t be having those kinds of thoughts, _ especially _ not about men. That’s how you get AIDS, Eddie. You can’t think like that.”

_ “What _ are you--?” 

Sonia cuts him off. “You’re not ready for puberty yet, honey. That’s why you have to take your medicine. Have you been taking your medicine?”

Eddie’s heart is _ hammering _ in his chest and he doesn’t understand, he doesn’t understand _ at all _ \-- there were a million different directions this conversation could have gone and _ this isn’t one of them. _ “I-- what…? Yeah, I-I have.”

“Then you shouldn’t be thinking about things like sex. And you should _never,_ _ever _think about sex with boys. That’s sick. It’s wrong. It will make you sick, and it will kill you.”

His brain catches up to part of what she’s saying but he’s still reeling. “But I-- but you said, you said AIDS comes from other peoples’ blood!”

Her hands on his face squeeze tighter, like she’s trying to pin him in place. Her beady eyes bore into his. “And from having sex with faggots.” She moves to grab his upper arm instead, marching him over to one of the kitchen chairs and pulling his dish-washing gloves off. Then she goes to the cabinet she keeps his medication in and pours a couple of pills into her hand.

“You need to take these so you can stop having those kinds of thoughts.”

“Why?” he asks, as she’s setting a glass of water on the table beside him, and holding the pills out for him to take. “Mom, why? What are they?” Greta Keene had said they were placebos. Are they_ all _placebos, though? Charlie had slipped something else in there, at one point, so what else could his mother possibly be hiding from him?

“Hormone blockers, Eddie. You aren’t ready for puberty. You aren’t ready to grow up. Just take these so I don’t have to worry about you.” She says it in that same beseeching way she always says things when she’s trying to force him into doing something she knows is wrong, like trap him in the house so he can’t see his friends all summer, and it makes anger flare up in his chest. 

“Are you telling me that the reason _ everyone else I know _ is going through puberty and _ I’m _ the one being left in the fucking dust is because you’ve been _ drugging _ me?” He kicks the chair back in his haste to scramble out of it, ducking behind the door frame into the hall. “You’ve been tricking me into taking… _ hormone shit _ when I’m supposed to be getting taller and stronger just like everyone else?”

“You’ve already changed so much,” his mom laments, following him into the hallway. “You can’t change more. You can’t. You aren’t ready to grow up, sweetie.”

She tries to give him the pills again but he backs away, hands up defensively. There’s _ no fucking way on God’s green Earth _ he’s putting that shit into his body. “No, _ you’re _ not ready for me to grow up!” he cries, and then he’s sprinting down the hall, slamming the door to his room, and dropping onto the floor at the foot of his bed with his head in his hands because _ fuck, _ what the _ fuck, _ she can’t just _ do that to him. _

This isn’t how this conversation was supposed to _ go. _

The door creaks open. His mom looks _ pissed. _

“Eddie-bear, you need to take your pills,” she insists, and he clambers up onto the bed, shaking his head, until his back hits the wall. “It’s for your own good, I promise.”

_ “No, _ ma, I don’t _ want--” _ She slaps the hand holding the pills over his mouth while it’s open, and the force of it pushes his head against the wall so there’s nowhere for him to go when the medicine tips into his mouth and her hand stays, blocking his mouth and nose, and _ he can’t do this twice in one day. Why does this keep happening to him? _

He tries to breathe and almost gags on the pills resting on his tongue, and why the fuck does his mother look so devastated about this if she’s the one who’s trying to suffocate him?

He wonders briefly if she’ll actually relent before he passes out or if she’s_ that _dead-set on making him take his fucking hormone medication shit. If she’s anywhere near as deranged as her brother, and Eddie’s almost certain she is, he shouldn’t try to push his luck.

He swallows, and it _ hurts _ because he doesn’t have any water to take the pills with, but he forces them down his aching throat all the same. 

“Good.” His mom strokes his cheek, unfazed as he takes great, frenzied gasps of air once her hand moves. “Good boy.” Eddie shudders. Sonia leaves the room like nothing out of the ordinary has taken place, tossing an, “I love you,” over her shoulder while Eddie’s skin crawls with the kind of intense, inescapable panic he’s rarely felt since their fight with Pennywise. 

Breathing doesn’t come easy. His heart is trying to escape his chest. 

He doesn’t even think to bring a jacket as he tumbles out the window, onto the muddy ground below, and _ runs. _

The sun is beginning its descent in the sky, and it casts a feeble warmth on Derry. The brisk wind counters it easily, and he’s shivering violently before he’s reached the Barrens, clad only in jeans and a thin shirt. 

He’s only just passed the treeline when he drops to his knees, sticks his fingers in his mouth, and makes himself vomit before he can give it a second thought. Then he does it again.

And again.

Until there’s nothing left and his throat is raw and snot drips from his nose.

He waits until he’s in the clubhouse, cold air drifting in where he couldn’t get the door back on right, the _ drip-drip _ of melting snow his only company, before he lets himself cry.

“I’m telling you, I _ definitely _ saw them in here last.” 

Eddie covers his mouth to muffle one of the full-body sobs working its way out of him. The door to the clubhouse shifts and a pair of running shoes appears at the top of the ladder. 

“No, I didn’t fucking hide them from you. What kind of shitty prank--?” Richie drops to the floor at the bottom of the ladder and freezes, mouth falling open. 

It occurs to Eddie how he must look, pale and shaking like a leaf, curled up in the hammock with tears soaking the fabric beneath him.

“What the fuck happened to _ you?” _ Richie asks, and that sob he was trying to contain bursts forth in a high, broken, _ horrible _ sound, accompanied by a fresh wave of tears. “Holy fuck.”

“Richie, what’s-- _ Eddie, _ wuh-what the _ hell?” _ Bill’s climbing down into the clubhouse, too, but it’s Richie who’s at his side in an instant.

“Hey, _ woah, _ Eds, what the fuck, buddy?” Richie’s hand touches his cheek and Eddie sits up just enough to grab onto him, one arm curling over his shoulder and clinging to the collar of his jacket, the stupid leather jacket that he looks so good in and that Eddie pretends to hate and it hurts so much more to know that his mom _ suspects. _

His ice-cold fingers curl tighter into the leather, if possible, and he’s so worked up all he can get out is a frail, “...’Chie,” before he’s bawling again.

“What happened? Eds, Eddie, hey, what happened?” he asks, sounding increasingly frantic, the hand on his cheek reaching up to brush his hair away from his eyes and then cup the back of his head, tilting his face closer. Richie’s practically fallen to his knees, hunched over him protectively as he shudders and whimpers in the hammock. “Are you okay? Jesus, you’re _ freezing. _Bill, give me your jacket.” Eddie’s forced to let go as Richie shimmies out of his own jacket, and then the warmth and weight of both settle on top of him.

He tucks his face under the collar of Richie’s and tries to calm himself, tries to _ breathe, _ tries to stamp down the horrendous sharpness that reverberates through his whole body. It’s hell. He’s in _ hell, _ and he feels like he’s on fire even while he’s absolutely frozen, because panic has settled into his veins like flames that he can’t put out long enough to relax. 

Richie is swearing above him, and the whole hammock rocks and sways dangerously as Richie’s warmth settles into place right beside him, all around him, and then it’s all Eddie can feel. “Eds, hey, I need you to look at me.” Richie cups his cheek again despite the stickiness of rapidly-cooling tears there. Richie’s eyes are bright, pupils narrowed down to pinpoints in his irises, mouth contorted into a frown. “Do you have your inhaler?”

_ Does he have--? _ No, he doesn’t. It’s at home, because he left in such a hurry, and Richie knows it’s fake, anyway, even if he finds it sometimes helps when he struggles to breathe for reasons that are almost certainly _ not _ asthma-related. 

It’s at home, because… _ because… _ Fear shoots up his spine like the crack of a whip, and he tips his head forward against Richie’s chest with an anguished sound, more tears spilling down his cheeks. 

“Okay, you’re okay.” Richie’s arms wrap around him, so much warmer, tugging him closer, until Eddie can’t tell where he ends and Richie begins. Their legs tangle together and he tries to focus on that, not the acidic taste in his mouth, not the never-ending ache in his hips, not the residual burn in the barely-there bruise around his neck. Richie’s heartbeat is quick and strong under his ear. Richie’s hand is a firm, grounding pressure as it travels up and down his back in broad strokes. Richie’s voice all around him is deep now, deeper than the last time they hid out here, and it rumbles through his chest as he speaks. “I got you. Nothing’s gonna happen to you. I got you, Eds.”

“The pills,” he croaks when he isn’t on the verge of hyperventilating anymore. Richie’s hand slows on his back. “I-- _ she--” _ He doesn’t know where to start.

He doesn’t know which information is worse: the fact that she’s been slowing down his progression into adolescence or the fact that whatever Charlie’s doing to him has a very real chance of giving him AIDS, which is the one thing his mother has absolutely drilled into his brain as the _ worst _ thing that can happen, and now he knows _ why. _

_ Richie _ is why. Richie is holding him here, like this, and he has no clue about the way he makes Eddie’s heart all twisted up in his chest with just his proximity.

“You’re okay. You don’t have to tell me. It’s alright. Just breathe.” He’s never heard Richie “Trashmouth” Tozier sound _ gentle _before. It’s just the right amount of shock to jerk him the rest of the way back into his body, from wherever he’d been drifting off to.

“She gave me something to fuck up my hormones,” he says all at once, in the wake of a stuttering breath. “So I don’t grow properly or something. I-I-I dunno.”

_ “What? _ When?” Richie sounds appropriately appalled, and Eddie needs to take a second before responding.

“She’s _ been _ giving it to me. She told me today a-and when I didn’t want to take them she… she--” One hand crawls up to his throat and the other to cover his mouth, and he watches Richie’s face erupt in a furious scowl. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I do. You’re staying at my house tonight. I don’t care what the fuck Mrs. K. wants to say about it.”

He thinks immediately of Charlie, and how his absence irritates his uncle so much, and all the horrid threats he’s piled up over the last few months. “I can’t--”

“Too bad,” Richie says bluntly. “Look, I know you’re scared, but I don’t think it’s safe for you to go back there right now. I don’t think you should go back there _ ever.” _

When Richie’s thumb smoothes over his jawline, fingers tangled in the hair at the back of his neck, his lip wobbles. “I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

“My house, obviously,” Richie says around a weak smile.

“I can’t stay there forever, Rich.”

“I know. I know. But we can do our best, okay?” Richie’s eyes are searching, _ pleading, _ and Eddie has always been weak for him, even if he hasn’t always been aware of it.

“Okay.”

* * *


	7. Hand Hold...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie can't exactly take these pills without knowing what it is he's putting in his body. He can't exactly... not take them, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Less angst. More Losers. Aw ye.

* * *

He _has_ to return to his own house, so he doesn’t run the risk of dragging Richie into this mess. He opens the door, head bowed, to face his mother where she sits in the glow cast by the television. “I’m sorry, mommy,” he says, and Sonia Kaspbrak smiles and replies, “Of course you are, sweetie.”

He came back here with promises and reassurances to Richie that he’d figure it out, maybe work out some sort of compromise, maybe talk some sense into his mother. That he’d be _ okay, _ and that _ no, _ Richie didn’t need to accompany him inside. That he would let him know if anything went awry.

That he knows Richie’s house is always open to him, whenever he needs it, _ whatever _ he needs.

“I forgive you,” his mom says, and he retreats to his room without pressing the issue further. His heart is weighed down by the lies he told. 

The compromise he comes up with is to just take the pills. He can’t defy his mom _ and _ his uncle, and if he tries, then he can’t fight back against them forever. So he takes them when he’s told, just like he has his whole life: good, obedient Eddie Kaspbrak, never once defiant, especially not towards his mother, right?

It sounds like he’s losing, but his compromise is that he throws them up after. 

He’s so good at making himself vomit it’s become like a skill. Swallow the pills, turn around and shove his fingers down his throat so that he throws up into the toilet, or the bucket he’s hidden in the back of his closet (he cleans it out at night), or even once or twice out the open window of his bedroom. 

The downside to this is that he takes medications several times a day, so he has to make himself puke several times a day. At least the stuff he’s expected to take after lunch comes with the bonus of him being at school on weekdays, so he can just flush them down the toilet. But the rest of the time there are always watchful eyes on him as he counts out everything he’s supposed to be taking and swallows it all down with a big gulp of water.

His family doesn’t seem to have caught on, even though he’s horrifically thin by this point. He’s been losing weight since Charlie’s arrival in Derry, so his uncle has probably just attributed his rapid deterioration to stress or something.

In the same vein, though he may be a toothpick at this point, he can at least use the excuse that he’s going through a growth spurt, because he _ is. _ And sure, his legs are killing him and he keeps tripping over himself, but when Mike points out that he’s “like, really skinny,” he grins and says, “Yeah, I’m just getting taller.” And damn if that doesn’t feel good to say.

They’re all supposed to go to Richie’s house for hot chocolate and board games -- Richie’s house is one of their ideal hangout spots, because unlike most of them his parents have, like, _ basic empathy, _ and don’t hate all of his friends. It just isn’t always available because his sister has people over _ all the time, _ taking up all the space in the basement. 

Once Mike has finally joined them outside Derry High, they start the walk to Richie’s, roughhousing and cackling all the way. Eddie’s glad for the distraction. He’s glad to have somewhere to go after school that isn’t his own home, into the waiting arms of his uncle. His watch beeps loudly and he opens his fanny pack, pours the pills he’s meant to take at this time into his hand, and drops them down the next sewer grate they pass.

Richie grabs his backpack and jerks it wildly around, laughing as he kicks a stray pill into the sewer, and Eddie leans back into him and grins broadly. _ Fuck what his mom wants. _

Fuck whatever Charlie wants, too. He not-so-subtly flips the bird as they pass his street on their way up to Richie’s, and with a loud whoop Richie is hoisting him onto his back and _ running, _ through the intersection and around the corner, barrelling up the driveway towards his house, where Mrs. Tozier is surely already home, as the smell of hot chocolate wafts out of the open windows. Eddie lets out a high peal of laughter and clings to Richie’s shoulders, nails biting into his collarbone. “Onward!” he cries, when Richie pauses to adjust his grip on his legs.

Their friends are still a ways down the road, unbothered by Richie taking off on them, as he flings the front door open, still piggybacking Eddie, and stomps down into the basement. “Top o’ the mornin’ to ya!” he shouts into the kitchen on his way by, while Eddie giggles against the side of his head.

“It’s the afternoon, doofus-ass.”

_ “Wow, _ after I break my back carrying you all this way, out of the goodness of my heart, you’re gonna just sit there and insult me?” Richie sniffs, over the commotion of the rest of the Losers entering the house and greeting Mrs. Tozier much more politely. He bends over backwards and dumps Eddie on the futon. “Mid o’ the a’ternoon to ya, or fuckin’ somethin’, then.”

Eddie snorts and plants his feet on his lap the second Richie sits beside him. Stan is the first to come into view on his way down the stairs, heaving a great big sigh when he sees them occupying ninety percent of the space on the futon. 

“You can join us, Stan the Man,” Richie says, winking, “There’s enough space on my lap for the two of you.”

Automatically, Eddie stretches his legs out further and shoots Stan a _ look, _ and he kind of prays Stan doesn’t interpret the gesture for what it really is -- _ jealousy, possessiveness -- _ but Stan just gives him a _ look _ right back and flops over in the La-Z-Boy across from them, shifting to make space for Bill.

“We are _ not _ playing Monopoly again,” is the first thing Mike says as he closes the door to the basement. “Monopoly is officially banned, according to our vote, and by that I mean Bill and I made an agreement.”

“That’s good, because Hannah broke the board in half last week,” Richie says, smirking and gesturing to the lopsided Monopoly box tucked into the bottom of their game shelf. One of his hands rests on Eddie’s leg, right above his ankle, and his fingers glide over bare skin where his pant leg has ridden up. Eddie tries to ignore the swelling feeling right where his heart is when Richie makes eye contact with him and smiles.

He hears Stan scoff and tears his gaze away to catch him whispering something in Bill’s ear.

“This looks like it was made for five year olds,” Mike says, turning to them with Candyland in his hands.

“It was,” Ben says, at the same time Richie shakes his head and snaps, “We are _ not _ playing fucking _ Candyland.” _

They do. They do play Candyland.

“How the _ fuck _ do you keep landing on the Rainbow Trail?” Richie demands of Stan and Bill, who had to team up because it’s a four-player game and there are six of them. “You _ have _to be cheating!”

“I’m reshuffling the deck. This shit is rigged. This is the _ third _ time in a row, and we’ve only played three games.” Eddie grabs the deck of cards and hastily shuffled it around. 

They’ve only played three games and he and Richie have come in last_ all three of them. _

“What the hell do you mean?” Stan gestures at their piece on the board. “This fucker keeps crossing the Gumdrop Pass! Tell me that isn’t cheating!”

“It’s sheer dumb luck. _ You’re _ the ones cheating.” Richie flicks the little green piece Stan and Bill are sharing clean off the board.

“Oh my god,” Ben sighs, flopping over in his beanbag chair and dragging a hand down his face. “How is this _ worse _ than Monopoly?”

“You guys have just made some kind of weird fucking pact with Jolly and now you keep getting free passes to jump ahead,” Stan says coldly, slamming the green piece back onto the Rainbow Trail, while Bill covers his mouth and shakes with poorly suppressed laughter. _ “You’re _ supposed to be backing me up, here.” Stan crosses his arms, indignant, and flops back in the chair with a huff.

Candyland ends up in the ‘beyond repair’ pile alongside Monopoly, stained with hot chocolate and snapped over someone’s knee. 

With the tentative warmth of spring, their horizons expand again. They’ve all dug their bikes out of garages and sheds and basements and are travelling familiar paths on a daily basis, homework and responsibilities abandoned in favour of each other’s company. The clubhouse gets some much-needed repairs after a long winter of infrequent use. They clear their spot in the quarry of weeds that began growing as soon as the weather turned. Richie carves dicks over peoples’ initials on the Kissing Bridge and gets an earful about it from Ben, who thinks he’s dooming their relationships by doing so.

Eddie misses out on most of it. 

Charlie always finds a way to keep him home, with coaxing or begging or outright threats, and Eddie is never in a position to deny him.

Bill gives him a deeply suspicious look when he dejectedly closes the door in his face for the third weekend in a row, not even bothering to provide a proper excuse for his lack of availability.

_ “Sorry, Big Bill. I can’t go fucking anywhere, ever, because my fucking insane uncle is trying to keep me like some kind of pet! Is that fucked up or what? See you at school on Monday!” _

Today, though: today, he gets a little taste of freedom because Bill came to the door after Charlie left for work. He’s got a part-time job at the ice cream shop in the strip mall, the one that also sells baked goods and hot beverages in the winter. 

Eddie dusts off his bike and chases Bill down the street, towards the Barrens, and as they go their friends catch up to them one at a time, all equally surprised to see Eddie for once.

They leave their bikes at the clubhouse and make the trek the rest of the way to the quarry on foot. Ben has a boombox and Richie has tapes he made, and they’ve all got backpacks full of candy and pop and somehow Richie managed to sneak some booze and cigarettes. They settle in around the top of the little cliff they’re all insane enough to have leapt off of at some point.

Eddie feels _ just _ hollow enough that he ignores the bitter taste of the warm beer Richie teasingly pushes on him and takes several big gulps. Richie gapes and Eddie sticks his tongue out at him. “You offered, fucko.” His voice is just a little deeper than it was a few weeks ago and he knows Richie notices, eyes going a little wider than they already are and darting down to his throat like he’ll be able to physically see a change.

“I didn’t think you’d _ actually--” _

“Richie, tell me you did _ not _ make a tape that’s just _ Holding Out for a Hero _ sixteen times,” Mike says incredulously, and Richie leans back against the rock he’s sitting on, face turned towards the weak and intermittent sunlight, and shrugs.

“‘Kay. I did not make a tape that’s just _ Holding Out for a Hero _ sixteen times. But _ don’t _ play it if you don’t want to hear _ Holding Out for a Hero _ sixteen times in a row.”

Eddie snorts so hard a little bit of beer comes out his nose and that _ fucking burns, Jesus Hopscotch Christ-- _ he’s still laughing even through the pain as he wipes his nose on his sleeve and Mike grumbles something about Richie being fucking nuts.

Richie lights up a cigarette, grinning wildly, and takes a big puff. “I miss Bev,” he announces, quickly putting a damper on the mood.

“W-we all do,” Bill says, taking the tape out of the boombox to flip it. He takes the beer Stan passes him with a sigh. 

“She’ll be back soon.” Ben is the only one not drinking now, but he surprises Eddie by accepting the cigarette when it’s held out towards him. Of course, he takes one puff and starts hacking, flinging it back at Richie with a, “God, _ ugh, ew, _ why would you do this to yourself?”

Richie blows a ring of smoke in Eddie’s direction. “What the fuck?” Eddie swats frantically at the air with his hands to make the smoke disperse. “Don’t you ever look at the warnings on those things? You’re going to get lung cancer and your gums are going to rot out of your face and I don’t want _ any _ of that shit. Keep it in your own damn lungs.”

Richie kicks him in the shin. Eddie kicks back. Richie blows more smoke in his face. “Mm. Tastes like cancer.”

“I hate you.”

The wind picks up around them, damp and cold, and Bill barely manages to save Richie’s comics from blowing away into the water far below them. 

“Can’t believe we’re almost done our second year of high school,” Ben says, as another gust of wind carries cigarette ashes into Eddie’s face. He _ cannot _ catch a fucking break. 

“Yay. Good for you,” Stan quips, and Mike tips his head back to laugh. 

“Aw, don’t worry, Stanley, sophomore year’s not all it’s chalked up to be,” Richie pats his cheek and grins wider, like the Cheshire cat, while Stan cusses him out. 

“At least you get to _ go _ to school,” says Mike pointedly. “Even if you don’t share classes with everyone.”

“That’s the thing -- he _ does! _ He’s fast-tracking science _ and _math! Stan the Man is a smart boy. He’s just pissy about graduating after the rest of us.”

Eddie lets out a quiet puff of laughter. “Yeah, like anything’s gonna stop him from finding a way to graduate with us anyway.”

Several fat raindrops splatter on the rocks around them. “Uh-oh.” Richie stands up. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. Please ensure that your seat belts are fastened and your seat backs are in the full upright position, as we are anticipating some turbulence.” Another raindrop hits his glasses, dripping down onto his cheek, while everyone scrambles to pack up their stuff into their bags. Ben’s hoodie is sacrificed for the sake of the boombox, then Richie’s jacket and Stan’s cardigan. 

“Run, motherfuckers!” Richie hollers as it turns to an outright downpour. 

The Losers all scramble away over the rocks, gathering their belongings as they go. “To the clubhouse!” Mike shouts. His shirt is already almost soaked through, and between the bite in the wind and the ice-cold rain, they’re all shivering before they’ve even made it to the bank of the Kenduskeag. No one has any qualms about wading across it since they’re all sopping wet. They carry their socks and shoes and bags over their heads and Eddie all but tiptoes across. 

“Oh my god I’m gonna step on a fucking rusty nail and get lockjaw and _ die _,” he says all in one breath.

Okay, maybe _ one _ of them has some qualms about wading across the stream. It doesn’t help that there’s a large sewer pipe gaping open at them just a few metres away, likely pouring refuse and other unnameable things into the water. 

That just sets him more on edge. 

They take a second once they’ve reached the other side to put their shoes back on, and just as Eddie is pushing his dripping hair out of his face and opening his mouth to comment about how badly he’s going to need a shower after that, there’s a racket over by the pipe and they _ all _ leap to attention. In a split second, Eddie is upright, a large rock clasped in his hand, as he whirls around to face the source of the noise and Richie is _ right there, _ grabbing at the fabric of his sleeves and drawing him in close. Eddie’s free hand curls into Richie’s shirt and they’re frozen, breath bated, as several more rocks clatter down the side of the pipe. Eddie has to crane his neck to peer around Richie’s shoulder; he thinks he’s the first to laugh when he sees it -- a _ very _ disgruntled, _ very _ wet raccoon, hobbling along through the overgrown mess of weeds and stones covering the drainage tube. 

“Fuh-_ fuck, _ guys,” Bill says, exhaling heavily. He shakes his head and laughs tremulously, wiping rainwater out of his eyes and there’s a strange sense of unity in understanding the _ exact _ sense of fear shared among six people. Like just for a moment, they’re all in each other’s heads, sharing the same thought process, and Eddie tilts his head back to look at Richie, who pulls him the rest of the way into a hug.

“Fuckin’ clown got us good,” he says, smiling against the top of Eddie’s head.

* * *


	8. Holding Out for a...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie's a little bit in love and he wants that to be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for internalized homophobia but that's actually pretty much it. Very tame chapter.

* * *

The tapping on his window startles him enough that the bed shakes when he jumps. He’s been so busy staring at his bedroom door, chest tight with dreadful anticipation, that he’d tuned out everything else around him. Throwing the covers off, he hurries over to the window to find Richie’s beaming face peering in from the other side.

“Richie, what the actual fuck?” Eddie hisses, cracking the window open. Richie opens it the rest of the way and crawls inside, easily resisting when Eddie tries to shove him back by his shoulders. “No, you can’t be here, what if my mom catches you?”

“Too fucking bad,” Richie says, and Eddie’s not sure if he’s more shocked by his _ tone _ or the fact that he didn’t seize an opportunity to make a joke about banging Mrs. K.

_ “What _ are you doing here?”

“We’re having a sleepover. School’s out for summer and all that shit.” Richie breezes past him and flops over onto the bed, stretching dramatically.

Eddie follows him, hands curled into fists at his sides, casting a fearful glance at the door and wishing more than ever that it had a lock. “Since when? You can’t just barge in here and decide that!” he half-whispers, half-yells. “My mom does _ not _ like you. She’ll kill you if she finds you here!”

“Oh, good. Then she can go to jail,” Richie says nonchalantly, rolling over and fluffing up Eddie’s pillow. “You got another one of these or are we gonna have to share?”

“Rich, you need to _ leave.” _ It’s late. It’s late and he should be asleep, which means this is the time Charlie is most likely to come into his room, and if he catches Richie here-- Eddie doesn’t know _ how _ he’ll react, but he isn’t looking to find out.

Richie grabs him by the wrist and pulls him onto the bed, sitting up just enough to catch him on the way down. “If you’re allowed to show up at my house unannounced for sleepovers, then I’m allowed to do the same to you.” He shrugs and leans back against the wall when Eddie sits up beside him, cross-legged, back ramrod straight. 

“Why?”

And he doesn’t mean _ why do you think that, _ he means _ why here? Why now? _ And he knows Richie hears that because he sighs and has the decency to look -- well, not quite _ sheepish, _ but certainly as close as he’s capable of getting. “I don’t trust your mom,” he admits, evenly, voice low so as not to tip off the other occupants of the house about his presence. “What if she’s still making you take that stuff, y’know? What if she’s, like, I dunno, fucking crushing it up in your food or mixing it in with water and dripping it down your throat while you sleep? What if she’s giving you something else you don’t know about?” He breathes deep and pushes his hair out of his face. “I gotta… I _ just-- _ Just let me sleep here.”

_ You can’t, _ Eddie should say, eyes darting back to the thin door separating them from all of Eddie’s secrets. But he doesn’t. He bites his lip and steels himself and says, “She’s definitely not doing any of those things.”

“But how do you _ know?” _ Richie doesn’t often let any real emotion shine through when he speaks -- not unless he’s planning on covering it up with a dirty joke or some foul language. The few times Eddie’s seen him sincerely let his feelings show were almost exclusively centered around encounters with an evil fucking clown. Richie’s hands on his face, eyes alight with fear: _ “Look at me, Eddie, just look at me,” he’d cried, while something from their worst nightmares advanced on them and Eddie had known he was going to fucking die, and maybe Richie had known it, too, so they could at least go out looking at each other instead of _ ** _that._ **

From what he remembers of his breakdown in the clubhouse a few months ago, Richie had been just as sincere, then. How often has he been promised comfort and protection before? It was like Richie knew exactly what he needed to hear and he’d meant every fucking word, too. 

“I’ve been taking them,” he admits, mouth dry as he sees the way Richie blanches, and he plows on, “I _ have _ been, so she’ll leave me alone, but I…” He hesitates, thinks of the bucket shoved in the back of the closet and the lid he’d secured in place not an hour ago, and how after Charlie left he would have snuck into the washroom to dump and rinse it and repeat the cycle again tomorrow. “But I’ve been throwing them up.”

There’s a quiet that stretches on far too long, uncharacteristic of Richie, who almost always has something to say. Gears are sliding into place in Richie’s head and Eddie flinches when the inevitable conclusion surfaces in the form of, “You aren’t just going through a growth spurt.”

He shakes his head, and Richie continues, maybe a little too loud considering their current situation, “You aren’t-- _ fuck, _ dude, even _ I _ didn’t get that skinny, and I shot up like a whole foot in two weeks, how the fuck didn’t we notice--?”

“Shh!” Eddie slaps a hand over his mouth, still looking at the door, always looking at the fucking door, a physical barrier between himself and Charlie that he doesn’t want to give him incentive to breach any earlier than necessary. “I’m _ fine. _ You need to _ leave.” _

“No,” Richie insists, muffled behind his hand. Petulant. “I want to stay here.” Then, like he’s remembering he’s not supposed to plead like that, adds, “My sex doll doesn’t work well to simulate human contact. Too cold and rubbery, y’know?”

And somehow his real intent shines through, clear as day, _ “I want to make sure you’re okay.” _ Just like when he held him in the clubhouse while he cried his heart out.

And the truth is, Eddie isn’t anywhere _ close _ to being okay, but if he said that a small thing like this -- like a little impromptu sleepover with his _ best friend -- _ didn’t help, he’d be lying.

He stares at Richie in the shallow darkness -- Richie, sitting on his _ bed, _ wild, curly hair all mussed and tangled and windswept; at the way his glasses reflect the crack of light peeking through under the door; at the loose-fitting leather jacket he refuses to ever take off, and his heart stutters in his chest. 

_ This _ is the person he wants in his bed. Not someone like Charlie. He wants Richie, with his sharply defined jaw and awkwardly long limbs and foul mouth. 

It reminds him of what could have been.

He doesn’t know if he can handle anyone touching him that way ever again, and it’s like lead in his stomach when he realizes just how much Charlie has ruined for him.

But _ this -- _ the proximity and the familiarity, the tenderness that Eddie’s sure he must be imagining, must just be wishful thinking (and _ you can’t think like that, Eddie) _ is nothing like how Charlie makes him feel. It’s nothing like what anyone else makes him feel.

He thinks the happiest he’s ever been is when he’s as close to Richie as possible. When they’re alone and he can see some of the barriers Richie’s built up crumbling because what is there to be afraid of?

Does Richie feel as safe around Eddie as Eddie feels around _ him? _

“Okay,” he breathes, finally, because _ fuck it. _ He’ll deal with the consequences as they come. He’d protect Richie with his fucking life, and so what if his mother disapproves? Like she’s earned any right to have a say in his life? 

He wouldn’t exactly push his uncle off a roof or anything to save himself, but he thinks if ever he threatened Richie like that, if he so much as _ looked _ at him the wrong way, his moral sense might just abandon him. Maybe that’s the kind of motivation he needs. He’s already close to snapping at the mere _ mention _ of Stan’s name from his fucked-up uncle. Throwing Richie into the mix might just be the straw that breaks the camel’s back. 

_ Let him come, _ he thinks. _ Let him see. If he says _ anything _ I’ll destroy him myself. _

He tips forward until his head rests on Richie’s shoulder, and Richie’s arm unhesitatingly snakes around his waist and draws him in closer. His cheek is warm against the crown of his head. Eddie’s fingers fiddle with the zipper of his jacket. 

It occurs to him only then how truly tired he is. How tired he’s been since _ last September. _ How many late nights he’s had; how many times he’s stayed up, heart pounding, lungs weak, waiting for the other shoe to drop. His breath leaves him all at once and Richie’s hand is a comforting weight against his hip.

He doesn’t remember closing his eyes. He remembers thinking about how this is the first time in a long time he’s felt safe enough to sleep properly, and then he’s waking up to sunlight filtering in through the window by the foot of his bed. There’s the creak of floorboards above him.

His room is the only one on the first floor, because, _ “Eddie, if there’s a house fire, you might have to crawl out the window. What if you fall and get hurt?” _

Which means his mom or uncle is awake. Which means they might catch-- “Richie,” he gasps, bolting upright, and sure enough there’s a spindly arm pinning him down by the waist and he shoves Richie’s shoulder. _ “Richie! _ What happened?”

Richie’s still wearing his glasses. They’re all askew on his face and he definitely drooled on them a bit. “Th’ fuck d’ya mean?”

“Last night! What happened? I fell asleep!”

Richie rubs his eyes, adjusts his glasses, and looks around, his overgrown hair somehow even wilder than before. “Clearly, I did, too.”

So he didn’t see Charlie? Did he even come into his room last night? He usually does. What if he saw? It wasn’t _ that _ dark, between the moonlight through the window and the light from the hallway, and if Charlie opened the door and looked, really _ looked, _ he might have recognized Richie, and how fucking _ selfish _ of him to let Richie stay just for the sake of his own _ comfort-- _

“What if my mom saw?” he whisper-screams, voice high and wheezy, like the beginnings of a not-asthma attack. “Fuck, Rich, what if she--?”

“So what? What’s she gonna do, put a lock on your window? Like that’s gonna stop me.”

There’s a _ lot _ going on in Eddie’s head and it’s all swirling into one jumbled, confused mess of, _ “My mom thinks I like boys -- no, she _ knows _ I do, and… and I do, don’t I?” _ and _ “If Uncle Charlie saw Richie he’ll get mad and what if he hurts him? What if he hurts him and it’s all my fault because I wanted him to stay?” _ and _ “What if this is why she’s so adamant to keep Richie away from me?” _

“You have to go.” There’s another creak from somewhere above them. “Like, _ now.” _

Richie takes one look at his panicked expression and concedes. “Okay. Alright. I’m going. But I’ll be back in like an hour to pick you up for the quarry.” Richie slides the window open and starts climbing out, feet-first, contorting his gangling limbs to fit them through the small space. “And don’t fucking think I’m not bringing you something to eat. You’re not starving yourself on my watch.”

Eddie tries to protest that, but, well… he kind of is, isn’t he? Even if it isn’t intentional, that’s what he’s doing. And it makes him a million times more guilty, on top of the sneaking around and the lying and the keeping of secrets -- secrets that could be _ dangerous _ for any one of them -- to add that he’s making them worry? That Richie is actually expressing _ concern _ for his well-being, even if in a roundabout, rough way?

Yeah, the guilt is eating him alive by this point.

He doesn’t think he can even stomach it. The sandwich, that is, when Richie comes knocking on his window again less than an hour later, after Eddie’s showered and dressed and cleaned out his puke bucket, brushing his teeth twice and, well, Richie’s timing is impeccable: his mom is just leaving for work, heading out the front door, and that leaves him alone with his uncle except that he’s escaping out his window before anything can happen.

Guilt is still gnawing at his guts but Richie hands him the sandwich covered in plastic wrap and says, “I used the strawberry jam, ‘cause you like that kind,” and no matter how much his stomach hurts he couldn’t turn that down.

He sits on the handlebars of Richie’s bike and they head for the quarry, quiet most of the way, but when they reach the Kissing Bridge Richie cracks a joke about it probably being riddled with STDs and _ keep your feet up, Eds, don’t let the cooties get you _ , and Eddie _ shouldn’t _ laugh but Richie always makes him feel so much lighter, anyway. “Do you think people have really had sex here?” he asks, as they pass through to the other side and emerge just outside the Barrens. 

“I’d bet my left nut, Mistah K,” Richie cheeks. “Now eat your goddamn breakfast.”

“What, let go of your bike and fall to my death? No, thanks.”

“Aww, ye of little faith.” Richie puts a hand to his heart and the bike swerves and Eddie _ swears _he has a heart attack on the spot. “I’d catch you.”

_“Asshole,” _ Eddie hisses, gripping the handlebars tighter. 

When they get to the quarry, everyone else is already there, lounging in various states of undress in the summer sun. 

The beginning of summer break has somehow never felt more distressing, but it’s an issue easily pushed to the back of his mind once he’s with the other Losers. Bill and Mike have their heads bent together, deep in a discussion about something, and as they’re approaching, Bill waves Ben over.

“--think your mom would be oka-ay with it?”

“Yeah, she's like, never home lately, so… We can pretty much have the house to ourselves.”

“What’s the 411 or whatever the fuck?” Richie asks, dumping his bike in a tuft of wildflowers and dusting his hands off on his pants. Eddie secures himself the best available shady spot -- which isn’t _ great, _ just a flat rock under a scraggly rose-of-Sharon. He should’ve brought sunscreen, he thinks bitterly. This is how he’s going to end up getting fucking skin cancer.

Bill smiles, rocking back to lean on his hands and let the sun warm his face. He’s removed his t-shirt but thrown the plaid button-up back on -- unbuttoned -- which looks kind of douchey but in a way Eddie definitely tries not to think is attractive. Like, if Richie were dressed like that-- “Bev’s coming back to-tomorrow.”

“Wait, seriously?” Eddie’s heart soars. 

“Yeah, she called me yesterday. We’re thinking about having Ben in-invite her over to hang out and maybe having a-a kind of surprise party?” 

“I can, y’know, bake cupcakes or something,” Ben chimes in with a shrug. “If you guys wanna bring some other snacks. Maybe some games.”

“Not fucking Candyland, _ please.” _ Mike looks like it’s physically painful for him to think about that. “I never want to see Stan in psycho mode like that _ again.” _

“You wouldn’t have to if Richie and Eddie weren’t cheaters,” Stan mutters from his spot by Eddie, sprawled out in the sunlight on the other side of the bush with his head propped up on a bundle of discarded shirts. He doesn’t even open his eyes, but Eddie can tell he’s rolling them.

They all make plans to meet up at Ben’s house for ten the following morning, and invite Bev over for eleven, so that they have time to set up some streamers and decorations -- _ not balloons, _ they unanimously agree, _ fuck balloons -- _ and make a _ real _ party of it. Build a blanket fort or some shit. End of the school year. Start of summer break. Finally having Bev back after a torturously long ten months. 

Only one of those things is truly worth celebrating. Eddie wishes every day that his mom wouldn’t have agreed to Charlie getting a job here and essentially moving in with them permanently. 

But Bev will be here. Tomorrow. And even if he can’t ever tell her the details of everything that’s happened since she left, he knows she’ll unquestioningly be a shoulder to cry on when he needs it. He feels stronger just thinking of having her around, and how close she is. Bev is strong, the way Bill is, like she’s a knight, too -- like she’s wearing an extra layer of armour and she’s ready to share it with the people who need it the most, even if she doesn’t know why.

He only realizes he’s zoned out _ completely _ when he hears Richie hiss, _ “No, listen to me,” _ maybe louder than intended. He blinks, drawing his gaze away from the puffy white clouds on the far horizon and back over to where Richie has hunkered down beside Bill, knuckles white around his forearm, faces tilted in so close together Eddie feels a pang of envy in his chest that he knows is _ wrong. _

Richie says something else, urgent and indecipherable, but Eddie can _ see _ the profanity tumbling off his lips anyway; watches the way a muscle in Bill’s jaw ticks and Richie jerks his arm a little.

Richie glances over at him. Catches him staring and the tension melts from his face in an instant, molding into a soft smile and that little bit of jealousy he felt for Bill dissipates as he smiles back.

He’s had _ one _ night away from Charlie -- a scant twelve or so hours of relative freedom -- and already he feels a million times better, like nothing could ever possibly go wrong again, and what was he afraid of in the first place?

He knows there will be consequences. Everything comes with a consequence. Fall asleep too early? _ I’ll teach you not to do that again. _ Cry too loud? He’s done that too many times. He’s half-afraid of crying altogether now. Have his body to _ himself _ for one day? Well, he hasn’t done that yet, but he can’t imagine it’s going to be pretty.

He also can’t quite bring himself to care, not when he has _ this _ right now. Not when he can take a moment to just breathe, to just _ exist -- _ to just listen to Stan shout something about a “King Eider” or adder or whatever-the-hell and dive for his backpack and the ornithology book in the front pocket. 

“It’s just a fucking _duck,_ Stanley,” Richie says, throwing his arms out to the sides exaggeratedly. Bill clocks him good on the shoulder and Stan gives him a look that would probably kill a lesser being, and Eddie _ breathes, _ and he lets himself just be for a while, because he knows the peace (relative though it is) isn’t going to last forever.

* * *


	9. I Need a...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, there are consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I wrote like the ending/epilogue thing for this fic last night instead of writing this chapter so this is rushed BUT the epilogue has made my heart FULL. And I'm the one who WROTE IT LOL
> 
> Also I LOVE you for commenting. I keep sneaking onto my phone at work to check my inbox bc it makes me so happy ahhhhh <3
> 
> (Let me know if this is full of errors bc uh I wrote it in like an hour in a caffeine-induced haze and I was not very focused RIP)

* * *

Uncle Charlie is being too nice.

Then again, he’s always too nice. He’s always too well-groomed, too happy, too charismatic. He’s too good at captivating his audience and directing their attention away from the horrors of the “behind-the-scenes”.

He’s being too nice in a way that feels riddled with anger, just below the surface. Or maybe Eddie’s just imagining it because he thinks Charlie may have seen Richie in his room last night.

Or maybe he isn’t imagining it. He has been out of Charlie’s reach for a full day now, after all.

He’s so sick of being on edge all the time. Having to second-guess every action and read every little change in inflection from his uncle. Stuck in a loop of “what does he know and what will he do?”

His mother doesn’t exactly make things better. She’s on her way out the door, expected at work for the evening -- she has a double shift today -- but she still stares Eddie down when she passes him a cup full of pills and he still looks her dead in the eye while he swallows them. She nods and continues on her way out the door, unaware of the seething look that follows her. 

“See you in a bit!” Charlie calls after her, while Eddie stalks out of the room. “I’ll whip something up for dinner while you’re out!”

He locks himself in the washroom. He can time it perfectly now. Throws up and flushes the toilet in the same instant, masking most of the sound, and he brushes his teeth  _ fast _ so nothing seems suspicious. 

Now’s the time to find out how pissed Charlie really is about him disappearing this morning. Sonia isn’t home to keep him tiptoeing around; these are the worst kind of days, when he knows he can do whatever he wants and he won’t get caught. Eddie shuffles to his room and seriously considers sneaking out the window again. Richie’s house is less than five minutes away, after all. Less than  _ that _ if he cuts across peoples’ lawns. 

Except he can’t exactly hide out there  _ forever. _ He’d hate to impose, even if he will be sixteen soon and he could very well get a job to help offset the cost of him living with-- who the fuck is he kidding?

His mom would  _ never _ let him pull that shit. She’d keep him locked in his room for eternity if she could. 

He sighs, watches the sun setting in a fantastic display of red-pink-yellow, and doesn’t notice anything is wrong until his head collides  _ hard _ with the wall. 

“Did you think I wouldn’t fucking notice?” Charlie asks, no pretense of charm in his tone. 

_ Which part? _ Eddie thinks, but doesn’t ask, wincing when the fingers in his hair squeeze and yank his head back. 

“Do you think you can just let  _ anyone _ touch you?” Charlie pulls his hair harder, and Eddie should have just  _ left, _ why the fuck didn’t he just  _ leave? _

_ Because it would only turn out worse if he did. _

He knows Charlie saw. Of course he did. There’s no denying that Richie was in his bed last night. Now, whatever Charlie seems to  _ think _ happened…  _ yeah, right. _

But then the touches turn softer. It kind of throws him for a loop. There’s a hand smoothing over his hip and the grip on his hair relaxes, hand sliding down to cup his cheek and turn his face up towards his uncle. “I knew I was right about you. I’ve known since you were just small, but seeing you now, grown up and still… well, I didn’t think I’d ever get that lucky.” His thumb presses down on Eddie’s bottom lip and he suppresses a shudder. “But I don’t feel lucky right now. I never said you could let anyone else put their hands on you.” The grip on his jaw is becoming too tight, too angry. He’s going to leave a mark. Eddie bites back a whimper when the pressure just builds, when the finger on his mouth bears down harder, nails digging into his chin. 

“So I’m going to show you what happens when you try to love anyone else but me.”

Eddie can’t move for a few long moments once he drags himself out the window. He should have left. He should have left a long time ago but he kept thinking he could handle it and maybe it wasn’t so bad and one day he’d be eighteen and he could move out. Leave Derry altogether. No one would ever need to know.

He kept thinking he could handle it and now he thinks he wants to die more than ever. He stares up at the dark sky above him and he envies the stars their ignorance. He knows how to do it. Knows which veins are important and what bleach does to the human body, and Richie thought it would be funny to use his shoelace to tie an attempt at a noose one time and Eddie didn’t laugh but he committed the process to memory.

He knows, but he doesn’t want to, because there are things beyond the walls of his home worth living for. Or, at least, he wants to convince himself they’re worth living for, so he gets to his feet and limps across the yard. 

He doesn’t cry. He hasn’t cried. There’s nothing to be afraid of about it, out here in the dark, but his throat burns hot and he swallows it all down, with the “ _ stop making fucking noise” _ and the echo of a harsh slap to the side of his head. 

The walk to Richie’s house feels like a lifetime.  _ It hurts, _ his body screams at him with every step, but he can’t sleep in his own bed tonight. Not if he wants to keep himself alive until morning. As if when the sun rises again this will all blow over and he won’t be hurt or afraid anymore.

It’s a big lie that’s made itself feel small, and he repeats it until he’s staring up at Richie’s bedroom window, and the little obstacles to get up there are suddenly a mountain.

He tries not to think about the blood while he climbs onto the railing of the back deck. Breathes in deep through his nose and ignores the lightning bolts of pain radiating through his hips while he drags himself up onto the low roof, bit by bit. He has to stop here, let himself just rest for a minute, and only when he realizes he could very well pass out right here, splayed out on the roof behind Richie’s house, does he try to stand.

Just a few months ago, back at the start of all this, he managed this whole process in under a minute, and only worried about the possibility of breaking his arm (again).

Now, while he half-crawls to Richie’s window, it feels like he’ll never make it, and his only motivator is  _ Richie makes me not want to die. _ Which is ridiculous, and he’s always been so concerned with his health and survival that this kind of situation would be funny, if he could laugh. 

_ “We can’t go in the sewers! Do you have any idea how much fucking bacteria is in there?” “You shouldn’t ride your bike that fast; you could break something.” “Of course I’m not going to jump off the goddamn cliff -- I could fucking die!” _

_ But drinking bleach is suddenly appealing. _

Ha.

Richie’s window isn’t quite closed all the way. There’s a small crack at the bottom, just enough for him to wedge his fingers under if he really tries. But his hands are shaking, and after several failed attempts and more than enough splinters to get the part of him that his mom trained to fear  _ everything _ riled up, a sob tears out of him as it all overflows. He sinks his fingernails into the old wood and heaves and the window slides up, just a touch, just enough for him to reach under and--

He lowers himself through the opening slowly, eyes screwed shut and air hissing out from between his teeth. Richie is sound asleep, just off to the side below him, and he just plants his knees on the bed and shuffles over to lie next to him, trying not to cry and failing miserably.

It’s okay, he tries to tell himself.  _ It’s safe here. _

It always has been.

“Whazzuh fuck?” Richie mumbles, barely lifting his head from the pillow to squint at Eddie, who’s trying to figure out the most comfortable way to lie down (there doesn’t seem to be one). 

Eddie holds his breath, like pretending he isn’t there will change anything, but it’s hard to do when his lungs are working overtime and of course Richie can hear the little choked sounds he’s making. He fishes around for his glasses for a second and stares down at Eddie with big, confused eyes. “Eds?”

“...Yeah?” Eddie says, voice small, and it’s  _ obvious _ that he’s crying and Richie goes rigid.

“What happened?” 

Eddie opens his mouth like he’s planning to explain (explain  _ how?)  _ but he just cries harder, the kind that shakes his whole body, and he’s only faintly aware of the bedside lamp turning on and then Richie’s arms around him. All the tension melts out of him and he lets all the big, ugly tears come out because he’s sick of holding them in.

This is looking to become a regular occurrence, this thing where Eddie bottles everything up for weeks and then lets it all go in front of Richie. He curls his legs up closer to himself, as close as they’ll go with Richie’s in the way, wheezing with every shuddering breath.

“Eds-- okay, you need to calm down,” Richie is saying against the top of his head. “I think you’re gonna give yourself an asthma attack.”

He doesn’t  _ have _ asthma. He just has these…  _ things _ where he can’t breathe right, but it’s  _ different. _ He doesn’t have the capacity to articulate that. 

“Look at me. Eddie, c’mon.” Richie’s hand on his face are gentle. Gentle is  _ not _ what he’s experienced tonight. It makes him more pliant, while Richie tilts his head back and gasps. “Jesus fucking Christ, Eds, what did she do?” His index finger traces over the spot where Uncle Charlie slammed his head into the wall. He has to imagine it’s bruised. The pain of it pales in comparison to everything else. 

He wants to tell Richie he’s sorry (and for what?) but he  _ really _ can’t talk, so he just reaches out and twists his hands into the front of Richie’s  _ Pink Floyd _ sleep shirt and wills himself to  _ breathe, _ in through his nose, out through his mouth,  _ slow. _

Repeat.

It doesn’t help much.

“Eds,  _ please, _ c’mon,  _ look at me.” _ Richie’s hand on his cheek feels like a security blanket.  _ Keep holding me like this forever. _ “Did she hit you?”

And he stares, face wet with tears, bottom lip trembling, and he doesn’t answer because he doesn’t know how to give the whole truth.

* * *


	10. Fallen...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beverly is not going to be fooled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is LATE

* * *

Eddie and Richie have always been clingy with each other, in a way that screams, _ “This is _ ** _my_ ** _ best friend, back the fuck off!” _ The only person who’s ever come close to fitting in with the dynamic is Bill and that was only because he’s the one who introduced them. 

But since then, it’s been Richie and Eddie, disturbing the peace. Richie and Eddie, bickering nonstop. Richie and Eddie, attached at the hip.

“Richie and Eddie, could you please focus, here?” Ben asks, snapping his fingers at them. “We’ve got deadlines.”

“Oh, untwist your knickers. Bev won’t be here for, like, thirty minutes.”

“It’s gonna take you thirty_ years _to finish at this rate.”

Richie rolls his eyes, gaze landing on Eddie, who snickers behind his hand and says, “Sorry, Ben. We’re on it.”

Ben walks away and Richie leaps into another one of his voices as he spreads a sheet between the two couches, which he and Eddie have turned so the backs are facing each other. “Ah say, boy, ah, ah say, you better git that pillow fort built an’ you better git ‘er built _ lickety-split.” _

Eddie _ does not laugh, _ thank you very much. “Do you think there’s gonna be enough room for all of us?” he asks, crouching to peer into the space they’ve created. It’s angled to face the television, so they can all lounge inside while they watch movies and waste a beautiful afternoon being couch potatoes. 

“Ah think it’ll work _ fine _ if we just spoon _ real _ close-like,” Richie’s voice says right beside him, and he leaps out of his damn skin. 

“Ass!” Eddie shoves him over into the pile of cushions they’ve collected but Richie just drags him down with him, and there’s an explosion of pain through his lower back but he _ ignores _ it; he’s _ fine. _ He wants to be _ fine. _

Richie and Eddie have always been close, but Richie hasn’t let him out of his sight yet today, except to shower, and thank god for that -- the clothes he was wearing last night had been crusted with blood and come when he’d peeled them off, and now they’ve been crammed into the bottom of a garbage can and Richie doesn’t need to know. Doesn’t need to see the kind of things he lets happen.

He uses Richie’s arm as a club to hit him with but Richie tenses up all the muscles until he can’t move them, and they’re squealing and shouting and Eddie plants his knees on either side of Richie’s waist and _ forgets everything bad _ and steals his glasses right off his dumb face. He throws a comforter over him as he stands and darts away through the house, as fast as he can move while masking a limp. 

“Seriously!?” he hears Ben shout as he passes him by, ducking into the kitchen where Bill and Mike are pouring chips and candy into bowls. 

“Give those back, shitlips!” Richie roars from somewhere behind him, followed by a _ thud _ and a groan that has Eddie tipping backwards, overcome with laughter. He slips the glasses onto his own face and everything goes completely blurry. 

“Holy fuck, dude. You really _ are _ blind,” he says, just as Richie’s heavy footfalls grow louder, and he can kind of see a fuzzy outline in a gaudy orange shirt that’s definitely the ugly Hawaiian shirt Richie wore today. “How do you live like this?”

“I cannot fucking see. Where are you, motherfucker?” Richie demands. Eddie goes still, like if he doesn’t move Richie won’t be able to find him, barely holding back a giggle.

“Can you two _ please, _ for five seconds, _ please _ stop being like this?” Stan must be in the room, now, too, and Eddie slips the glasses off (the world comes back into focus abruptly) just as Bill says, “I dunno, I think if Richie could see right now he’d say it wuh-was cute.”

“Eddie’s always fucking cute. I’m gonna kick his ass when I can see it again.”

“Gotta catch me first,” Eddie says, and he dips around Stan through the other entrance to the kitchen, which loops back around to the living room and their shitty blanket fort. _ Safe zone, _ he thinks, running straight for it.

Richie tackles him gracelessly, taking down the meagre beginnings of their fort as they topple into the cushion-pile again. He takes his glasses back, pins Eddie with a forearm across his collarbone, and gives him a wet willy.

Eddie _ shrieks. _ “That is _ so _ gross!” he bitches, slapping Richie’s gross, nasty hand, but Richie is cackling with glee and completely unfazed by the blows. 

“Nooooo,” he howls when Richie licks a stripe up his cheek, still holding him down. “No, that’s so unsanitary oh my _ god!” _

The doorbell rings. “Oh fuck,” Richie says, face bare centimetres from Eddie’s.

“Oh, fuck,” Eddie agrees.

“She’s early,” Stan is saying, ducking into the living room and turning the lights off, casting a long-suffering look at the demolished attempt at a fort. 

“No shit, Sherlock.” Richie rolls off of Eddie and crouches behind the couch, and one by one the other Losers scurry in and hide with them.

They can hear Ben and Bev chatting in the foyer, and then footsteps approaching. Bill flicks the light on just as Bev enters the room and they all shout “Surprise!” at different times and in different tones. Eddie’s heart is a little lighter for it, whether it’s the stupidity of the whole thing or seeing Bev again after ten months or the big hug they all tumble into together. 

“How long do you think it’ll take that car to reach the sun, though? Like, for real? Can anyone do this math? How long until they melt?”

“Beep beep, Richie,” Stan says, pressing a hand over his mouth. “Some of us are trying to actually watch the movie.”

“It’s fucking _ over.” _ Richie’s voice is muffled behind Stan’s hand but that doesn’t stop him. “Someone answer my question.”

“My mom hates this movie because she thinks that’s just unrealistic,” Eddie says without really thinking, because it’s _ true. “Just putting silly ideas into the heads of gullible teenagers. A flying car. Dangerous, is what it would be. Deadly,” _ she had said, snorting, when it had come up while she flipped through the channels just a few weeks ago.

Eddie had wanted to roll his eyes and tell her _ no one fucking thinks they can build a flying car just because of some crappy musical from over a decade ago, _ but he’d exercised restraint. He’s used to these things from his mother. He’s used to the, _ “Don’t let people fool you, Eddie-bear; those gas stoves give off toxic fumes. They poison your food,” _ and, _ “These new video games are going to make kids think violence is acceptable. You shouldn’t be exposed to that kind of thing. It will rot your brain.” _ He just takes it, and resists the urge to roll his eyes, and says, “Yes, mommy.” “You’re right, mom, that’s stupid.” And you know what?

_ He _ likes _ Grease, _ so fuck what she thinks.

“It’s absolutely unrealistic. That’s what’s so goddamn funny about it,” Richie says, right when Stan pulls his hand back, shrieking something about Richie licking him (hardly surprising).

“Wow, no gross mom jokes. How you’ve matured, Richie,” says Bev with a hand over her heart.

Richie waves a hand dismissively and scoffs. “Nah, Mrs. K. is just completely off the menu now. And not in a ‘someone else ordered her’ kinda way.” 

Now that Eddie thinks about it, it _ has _ been quite some time since Richie made a joke about screwing his mom. _ Thank fucking god. _ Richie can be relentless at the worst times. 

“More like, I just threw out the whole fucking menu. Gotta start from scratch. Stan, how does your mom feel ab--”

“Well, I’m getting another Coke.” Bev stretches and pries herself out of the pile of teenage bodies amassed inside the poorly-repaired fort. “Anyone want anything?”

“Coke, too, please,” Mike says, and when Bev walks away Richie gets up to follow her, which in turn dislodges Eddie from his _ very _ comfy position between the back of the couch and Richie himself (or as comfortable as he can get, considering). By will of gravity, he half-rolls onto Stan and just stays there, cursing Richie for abandoning him.

Only to be jostled again when Bill heaves an enormous sigh and gets up, too.

“Great, now I’m cold,” Ben complains. Mike tosses another blanket at him.

“One of us is gonna have to get up and put on another movie,” Eddie mumbles, burrowing further into the cushions because, _ fuck, _ he is _ exhausted _ (it was a _ long fucking night) _and it’s warm, too, in the little indentation Richie left behind. 

His eyes snap open when he hears raised voices from the kitchen.

“--can’t just fucking ignore it forever!” Richie shouts, and then he distinctly hears Bill’s voice but can’t make out the words. He lifts his head and makes eye contact with Stan, who looks just as confused as he is. 

Bill and Richie arguing is never a good thing.

“No, I’m pretty fucking sure I know exactly what the hell I’m talking about, and Bev does, too!”

Now Bev says something, much quieter, much more calm. Eddie throws the blankets off and rushes into the kitchen, the rest of the Losers close behind.

“Well, that’s all fine and dandy, but I’m kinda losing my mind over here. Like, _ months, _ Bev, and what the fuck am I--?” he freezes when the rest of his friends crowd into the kitchen, mouth snapping shut.

“Why are you fighting?” Mike asks, hesitant. 

“Because… because _ fucking-- _” Richie makes a frustrated noise and Eddie steps closer to him, prepared to offer whatever comfort he needs, but then Richie rounds on him and says, “Because Eddie!”

“Huh? What’d I--?”

_ “Because,” _ Richie whirls back around to point an accusing finger at Bill, “you knew exactly what was wrong in the first place, and you said it wasn’t our place to interfere, and then when I told you about the puking thing, you said there wasn’t anything we could do, and now _ this!” _

His brain function slows to a snail’s pace. There’s no way Richie could be talking about…

“Look at him, Bev. Look what she did!” 

Eddie knows he’s referring to the faint purple bruise adorning the left side of his face. His throat goes suddenly very, very dry. Sahara in a drought. His voice deserts him.

Richie barrels on, spotlighted in the middle of the Losers Club, _ oh ye who are gathered here today-- _ “Eds, listen, I’m sorry, but we _ have _ to get you out of there. I mean, what’s next, really? This is the kind of thing people go to jail for.”

Eddie doesn’t say anything. His throat works like he’s trying but he isn’t sure what words are supposed to be coming out. “Bev believes me. She does. Right, Bev?” he doesn’t wait for an answer. “Look, I thought it through for you.” He’s so much less agitated now that he’s directing his attention at Eddie. Is that because he thinks he’s like a wounded animal? Like if he’s too abrasive, he’ll flee? Eddie might anyway, if his feet weren’t glued to the floor. “We call the police on your mom. Tell them she’s been giving you fake pills and tricking you into taking things you shouldn’t. Tell them she hurt you. She’ll go to jail. And then, get this, your Uncle Charlie can get custody, right? Next of kin or something? And he’s a cool guy, and he pretty much lives with you already, so nothing has to change.”

Eddie feels like someone dumped ice water over his head. Richie’s being all… all careful and quiet and everything he _ isn’t, _ and he’s so _ sincere _ and he has it all _ wrong _ and Eddie’s worried for a moment that he might actually vomit all over Ben’s pristine kitchen floor. He hates the things his mother does, _ yes, _ but he doesn’t want her to go to jail.

And if she wasn’t around, what would be left to stop Charlie? 

He can’t help but imagine a life where Charlie is his legal guardian and then his lungs are ten times too small. His hands twist into the front of his shirt and he doesn’t know if he’s trying to pull it away to make more room to breathe or hold it closer to keep it_ on _ because Charlie loves to take it off and mark him up.

“Beep beep, Richie,” Bev says, a note of panic in her voice. 

Richie ignores her. “Okay? Nothing has to change and she’s not going to hurt you anymore. Right?”

_ No, no, no no no she’s not the one who’s hurting him not like Charlie he can’t be alone with Charlie he’s-- _

“Oh, my god, Richie, shut up!” Bev snaps, and now she sounds _ mad _ and Eddie’s overwhelmed and a tear drips off his chin. His heart drops to his toes. He can’t cry. He’s not supposed to cry. His fingers twist tighter into his shirt until his knuckles turn white and he _ shakes. _ He’s going to pass out, maybe, if he doesn’t throw up, and more than anything he wants to cry but. Well. What’s the consequence for crying?

“Get out. Out, now,” Bev commands; it takes him long enough to register that by the time he thinks to obey they’re almost alone -- _ oh, she wasn’t talking to him -- _ and Bev gives one seething, “You, too, Richard,” and his knees give out then and there.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps. “I’m sorry.” But he doesn’t know what for.

Hands are touching his face and he flinches back _ violently, _ before realizing who they’re attached to. There’s a horrified kind of recognition in Bev’s light eyes. “Oh, Eddie, _ no,” _ she whispers, and he reaches out to hold her wrist like he can ground himself with that. 

He blinks away the other tears that threaten to spill over and tries to calm his breathing but he usually has Richie to help so-- _ so-- _

“I’m sorry,” he whimpers, and they overflow anyway.

* * *


	11. Hometown...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie is pissed. Rightly so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is late. Whoops.

* * *

Bev is probably the smartest of all the Losers. Not the way Stan absorbs information like a sponge or Eddie might as well be in medical school (or Richie has a smart mouth, if that counts). But when it comes to other people, she may just be the smartest of them all.

She’s the one who took the reins in a conversation Eddie was barely capable of participating in and figured _ everything _ out in a matter of minutes. Eddie was like an open book to her. She took one look at the pages and she could sum up the contents with ease.

She filled in the blanks before he’d collected himself enough to answer her questions, but his reactions were all the answers she needed.

Now he’s sitting in the clubhouse, two days later, and anxiety is like a never-ending hum under his skin. 

Bill slept over that night. His mom had caved surprisingly easily on that. Bill slept over and Charlie gave Eddie a _ look _ as they passed the living room, the kind that was meant to make him think there’d be a price to pay later, _ you’re not so clever, _ but he hadn’t known Bill was giving another, darker kind of look.

There would be a price to pay, indeed.

They didn’t let him go home at all, last night. His mom is probably in a frenzy now. Not because she doesn’t know he stayed out. More likely because he’d called her from Stan’s house, said, “I’m staying with my friends tonight,” and hung up. No details. No emergency plan. No phone number to get ahold of him.

End of story.

They _ all _ slept in the clubhouse. Sleeping bags and blankets and snacks and toilet paper all hauled out into the Barrens with backpacks and wagons, and they set up camp and stayed here, away from the stress of it all -- somewhere they could guarantee Eddie would be safe, because no one else knows about it. 

And maybe they don’t know all the details but they know enough, and Richie is quieter than he’s ever been. The creature curled up behind him with his forehead pressed to his shoulder is less “Richie Tozier” and more “shamed puppy”. 

His hands hover like he’s afraid to _ touch _ \-- like suddenly _ that’s _ changed, too -- and eventually Eddie gets fed up and takes his hesitant hand in his own, weaving their fingers together. There’s a puff of breath against his shoulder as Richie sighs and relaxes.

His behaviour over the last several months has been enough for some of them to realize this issue extends beyond Charlie simply hurting him, but he isn't sure they know the whole truth. Not the details, or the frequency, but the haunted looks he received after Bev's whispered conversation with them tell a tale on their own. And that's okay, for now. He doesn't know if he's _ready_ for them to know, not like _that._ Not how often it happened or how awful it was or how he just _let_ it happen. The fear of his uncle is enough, for all of them. The hiding and the lying and the uncharacteristic withdrawal tell a story without the unfortunate details and that's _fine._ Knowing that Charlie _hurt_ him, left bruises and marks all over him, kept him away from them for weeks at a time, made him so fucking miserable that all that's left is _this_ now -- this _shell._ That's too much for them, already. They don't need to know the rest. For their sake.

Somehow Richie is the only one of them who’s even remotely capable of driving a car, besides Bev, and she’s out because she _ insists _ on staying with Eddie, who _ insists _ he doesn’t need to be babied, and that argument is nothing compared to Richie’s adamance that _ he _ will be staying here with Eddie, thank you _ very _ much.

He’s said it before, and he’ll say it a million more times: Richie is a lover, not a fighter. Self-proclaimed. But hell if the need for a good fight hasn’t been burning in his eyes since Bev _ explained. _

_ “I _ know what he needs,” she’d said, and that was a _ mistake. _

“**_Whose_ ** _ best friend is he?” _

Yeah, things could be going better. 

But Bev has a perfect time frame for “borrowing” her aunt’s car and they can’t waste it with bickering.

Bill, the knight leading the charge, keeps juggling the safe, sane solution with someone’s suggestion that Mike push him down the well like he did with Bowers. And so what if Bowers survived? Push him again, if that’s the case.

"No, no, you can’t just _ kill _ people. Not like that. That’s premeditated. That’s jail time."

"...Yeah, because some of us are sixteen. We _ can _ go to jail."

"No, there’s a_ difference _ between a demon clown and a human being."

_ "Is he, though? A human being?"_

Eddie lets out a whine just low enough that he thinks only he can hear it, tipping over on the sleeping bag and curling in on himself, smaller and smaller, like he can shrink down and disappear altogether. Richie’s arms snake around his waist and _ cling. _Like he can _ stop _ him from disappearing.

They’ve already gone through the “you don’t have to do this for me” spiel a dozen times. He’s exhausted all his options when it comes to preventing his friends from doing something crazy.

Maybe crazy is what’s necessary.

Eddie really thinks that if his uncle lays a finger on him again he’ll shatter into a million pieces. 

As it stands, he’s shaking apart at the seams.

Richie holds him together.

Beverly’s fingers comb through his hair. She’s lying down beside him, facing him, keeping a respectable distance the way Richie never does. 

Her eyes are sad. Eddie’s almost sick of seeing it at this point, because he knows _he_ did that to her.

“Eddie?” she says. He blinks at her.

“Eddie, honey?”

Why does that sound so much nicer coming from her?

A tear slides down the side of her face and leaves a dark mark on the sleeping bag. “I think you should see a therapist.”

“Why?” he asks in a voice so distant he doesn’t entirely recognize it.

“I think you’re going to need someone to talk to. I did. It helped.”

“I have Richie,” he says automatically, because doesn’t he? He’s always had Richie. And there isn’t a secret between them anymore, not like there has been for so long now. Richie knows. He knows _enough,_ for now. Richie doesn’t have to guess at what's wrong with him anymore.

Richie’s his best friend and he’ll listen if Eddie wants to talk, even if he’s going to crack some jokes to make everything seem a little less awful.

“I mean a professional. So you can feel like yourself again.”

“I am myself.”

Bev frowns. Her gaze travels up and down his body. She hasn’t seen what’s under his clothes yet. None of them have. She can guess well enough, though. 

“If I did,” he starts, hesitating as it occurs to him, “see someone, my mom would have to know.”

“Yeah.”

“She’d…” His breath hitches. “She’d call me sick. She’d make me take… I can’t. She’d think I’m sick. She’d take me to the hospital to get-- get tested for AIDS or… or STDs and I--”

“Shh.” Bev rubs soothing circles where her hand still rests on his head. He tries to get his breathing back under control. It helps; the gentle contact. He lets it relax him and his eyes drift closed and then Bev says, “She’d have to, Eddie. You have to do that, anyway.”

Eddie barely makes it out of the clubhouse in time to throw up.

*

Richie’s been dreaming.

That’s not unusual in and of itself. Everyone has dreams.

Richie’s dreams have become increasingly disturbing over the course of the last few months. It started when Eddie confessed to his mom tricking him into taking things other than just sugar pills. And then making himself sick so he didn’t have to worry about the effects.

And now this. 

The thing is, the dreams he’s experiencing have the unfortunate tendency to mash up the memories of their summer misadventure in ‘89 with current goings-on. He’s sick to death of watching black acid-vomit spill from dream-Eddie’s mouth while he cries -- Richie can’t _ stand _ to see him cry. It’s just not something he _ does. _And on the occasions it does happen, it's horrible and heart-rending and impossible to watch. 

It means something is _ seriously _ wrong. Like, “deranged mother tricking me into taking puberty blockers” wrong or “I’ve been purging every day” wrong. 

“My mom hit me” wrong. And parents hit kids, sure. No one is perfect. 

But hard enough to bruise like that? Fuck no. 

And _ Eddie? _ To even think about laying a hand on _ Eddie? _

Fuck.

No.

Sometimes the clown is in his dreams. Sometimes one of his friends morphs into _It_ between one blink and the next. More often than not, It _ has _ one of his friends, and those dreams are just a normal occurrence until things start going wrong with Eddie. Then it’s all him, it’s always him _ (it’s always been him, _ his traitorous brain whispers). Richie’s worst fears coming to life.

Mrs. Kaspbrak has always been a little overbearing. A little too batshit insane, if you will (and Richie fucking _ will). _

Of _ course _ when his best friend in the world started acting strangely, it was easy to pin the blame on her. It was _ always _ her. Why hasn’t anyone seen Eddie in two months? Why, his ‘sane and reasonable’ mother is to blame, obviously. Why is Eddie in the hospital? His mother overheard him sneezing. Why is Eddie so withdrawn today? Has to have something to do with his mother.

Not this… this _ new _ person who materialized in Eddie’s life. Who dialed the charm up to one hundred and had a cool moustache and dressed like he belonged in the industrial revolution and was _ nice. _ He was generous and encouraging and all these things Richie just couldn’t associate with Eddie’s mom, so how the hell could he have known?

And Eddie hadn’t _ once _ let slip the extent of the issue. They’ve been friends for so long that everything has fallen into a perfect little pattern: If Eddie is upset it’s because of his mom’s frightening possessive nature. If Stan is upset it’s because of his parents’ criticisms. If Bill is upset it’s because of the rift in his family since… well. They all have their problems and their origins and their ways of coping, and everyone was familiar with everyone else’s rhythm. All of that was disrupted when Charlie arrived, without any of them even _ realizing. _

Except, maybe, Bill, and Richie has been kicking himself in the ass about that for two days now. Bill, who had said he didn’t trust Eddie’s uncle the very first time Richie had approached him with these problems and Richie had _ scoffed _. Scoffed and told him, “No, no. I know Eddie. This is his mom finally going off the deep end. We gotta do something.”

But she hadn’t technically done anything illegal, right? And that had been the end of that conversation.

He bets Bill’s kicking himself in the ass, too. He should’ve pushed the issue, but neither of them could have ever imagined…

He’s been practicing driving with his dad since last summer. He just got his learner’s permit a few months ago, after he turned sixteen, but he’s confident enough in his skills that he doesn’t hesitate to pretty much _ steal _ (temporarily) Bev’s aunt’s car while his friends pile into the backseat. He’ll return it in good condition. That much he can guarantee.

Stan is _ adamant _ about not going back into the sewers. The interior of the Well House is where he draws the line and even that is pushing him out of his comfort zone, so he stays with Richie. Mike has to, too, because he’s stronger than most of them (life on a farm will do that) and they need someone capable of carrying a full-grown adult with them. 

That leaves Ben and Bill to be dropped off on Neibolt Street, weapons at the ready just in case -- “weapons” being a kitchen knife and a baseball bat. Whatever will protect them from the demon clown that may still lurk down there.

They’re in charge of set-up while the other three do retrieval, which is a delicate task. “We gotta get him hard enough to knock him out, but not hard enough to kill him. Bill doesn’t want us to go to jail,” he jokes, while Stan cradles his head in his hands and mutters, “Oh, no, no, no, no,” to himself for most of the drive.

Mike rests a hand on his back, leaning in close, and the whispering stops but he’s still all curled in on himself like-- well, like this is a godawful idea and they’re all going to fuck themselves over, which they very likely might.

“Well,” Richie says, trying not to look to concerned as he casts a glance at Stan in the rearview mirror. The old car rattles to a stop behind the strip mall, where employee parking is. Charlie’s blue Pinto is nearby, close enough to a dumpster that they’ll have the perfect place to hide. “Let’s go scare a motherfucker.”

* * *


	12. Need Another...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life update I DID get a car and that whole process was a nightmare and that's why this is late, because I've been super busy for the last two weeks with car stuff and insurance stuff and work stuff and it's all a nightmare!! Adulthood is a nightmare!! Idc how old u are, stop growing up this instant!!!!! It's all garbage!

* * *

When Richie comes back he’s _ filthy. _

He’s filthy and he’s _ smiling, _ a soft thing that’s almost out of place on his face. And when he says, “I think we did it,” Eddie has to smile, too. 

Richie collapses into his arms and for once he can’t bring himself to care about the literal sewage coating his clothes and matted into his hair. He feels the other Losers’ arms wrap around him, and most of them are _ gross _ and they _ stink _ and he thinks that he laughs. He thinks it’s maybe a little hysterical.

He feels warm tears on his shoulder and he holds Richie more fiercely to himself because it’s what he needs. 

_ I’m okay, _ he tries to convey through the action, _ I’m okay and so are you. _

_ We’re okay. _

And he’s not -- not really. Not in the sense that things can just go back to normal after this. But this, here? This, now? This is okay. This is the lightest he’s felt in almost a year and he has all his friends to thank for it. All his friends who are embracing him like he’s something precious to be protected, when he wants to be.

When he wants to be.

He drops his forehead against Richie’s grimy shoulder and his own tears mix with the grey water soaking his shirt. 

*

“I’m not going to take them, mom,” he says again, slowly. Like maybe that’s why she’s having trouble comprehending the words coming out of his mouth. 

“Eddie, you can’t--”

“They’re_ fake, _ mom. And the stuff that _ isn’t… _ You can’t make me take that.” In the two days since Charlie had escaped the sewers, after what the other Losers described as a _ colourful _ misadventure involving the bodies of the missing kids of ‘89 and several hiding spots dug out in the pile of debris -- the lost toys, and his heart breaks a little to think of _ all those kids _ \-- he’s felt different.

_ Liberated. _

Like sheets of ice have slid free from his limbs and when he stands and faces off with his mother, it’s just that much easier. 

“You have to.” She takes a step towards him but he holds his ground. What else is there to be afraid of? Charlie, still covered in grime and shivering despite the sticky summer air, had packed his bags with hardly a word and fled. God knows where he went. Eddie couldn’t fucking care less. 

Good fucking riddance. 

“Eddie,” she says, fear leaking through under the anger because he’s only ever stood up to her like _this_ once before, “You’re sick.”

“I’m not. We’ve been over this.”

How he’s remaining so calm is beyond him. Defying his mother normally has him quaking in his shoes. 

He’s just been through so much these last few months, it doesn’t _ feel _ as scary anymore. Especially without Charlie around to back her up. 

So when she continues to _ insist, _ he isn’t afraid to turn around and leave the house altogether. She has no hope of catching him and he _ refuses _ to fear the consequences at this point. 

“Bev,” he breathes into the phone, curled up in an armchair in Richie’s basement. “Can you tell me about that therapist you wanted me to talk to?”

Eddie’s life is quickly becoming one hurdle after another. Except he doesn’t actually know which ones are supposed to come first and all he’s got is a lot of paranoia and an inhaler he doesn’t need but carries for comfort, twisted as that seems. 

But then Richie is there, because of course he is, and Richie brings Bev and Bill and…

Yeah, he can do this. There’s an order this has to go in, and it’s going to have to start with washing away the concealing makeup Bev let him borrow.

He may as well have thrown himself under a train for the way his mother reacts, with the _ “What did you do?” _ and _ “Those horrible kids you call friends” _ and what a bad influence they all are. 

“Mom, _ stop,” _ he interrupts firmly, and her mouth snaps shut and she _ stares, _ scandalized. “I need you to sit.”

And she does. “Eddie-bear, your beautiful face,” she tries to continue lamenting, but he cuts her off again with:

“I wasn’t lying. About Uncle Charlie. I wasn’t making anything up. I wasn’t having bad thoughts.” His heart is in his throat and he knows he won’t be sticking around in the house for long after this conversation, because no matter the outcome he just really, _ really _ fucking needs Richie to hold him right now, and he _ knows _ Richie is more than happy to indulge him. His knees tremble and he sits on the couch behind him before they can give out. “He hurt me.” 

“Charlie _ didn’t--” _ Sonia tries to say, beady eyes bulging, but Eddie cuts her off.

“I wasn’t lying. You didn’t_ listen _ to me--”

_ It’s all too familiar. It’s been literal years since they’ve been down here, long enough to _ forget, _ but Richie remembers it all down to every last detail. _

_ Charlie is stirring already, which means they don’t have much time. There’s a trickle of blood running down the side of his head. He hopes he didn’t do more damage than necessary, but at the same time he wishes he could get a couple more swings in. He doesn’t think he’s ever, in his sixteen years of life on this stupid fucking planet, been this _ pissed. _ Like lava overflowing from his chest, into his limbs and his throat and his brain. _

_ Like if he could, he would kill this man, and that scares him. _

_ He’s felt this way for days now. Bursting with restless energy and an anger so intense it’s terrifying. Now, though, with the very person his rage is directed at literally in his hands, an eerie sense of calm has settled over it all. This is how it has to be. He’s not a fighter. He couldn’t bear the repercussions of killing another living being (sewer-dwelling clown demons aside). He knows that. _

_ All the logical, reasonable parts of his mind know that. _

_ But there’s the part where Eddie is something precious to him, where he _ almost _ understands Sonia Kaspbrak’s ideology of wrapping him in bubble wrap and hiding him from the world, that shakes and screams and rages and he’s barely keeping in reined in. The part that honestly can’t get past, _ “How dare you, how dare you, how _ fucking dare you--” _

_ Lay a hand on Eddie fucking Kaspbrak, who is _ good _ and beautiful and should be loved, should be _ loved, _ not hurt, _ never-- _ He’s cried a lot in the past few days, mostly out of sight of the other Losers, because Eddie is all foul language and big doe eyes and Richie _ _**loves him ** and he wasn’t good enough to protect him. _

_ They dump Charlie in the cistern almost as soon as they’re through the door, and Richie thinks how he wishes he could wash his hands with bleach before he touches Eddie again. The fucking bastard at their feet groans at the impact, gaze shifting under his eyelids. _

_ Then he sees it. _

_ The kids -- the bodies -- arranged carefully into a circle, surprisingly free of decay after so long down here. This place has never seemed like a part of the real world and the well-preserved looks of terror on some of the lost kids’ faces only make him think he’s right. _

_ There’s a clattering from somewhere high, high above them. A small avalanche of old toys slides down the side of the veritable mountain of junk. _

_ “Put him in there,” Ben says, from a dangerous perch in the debris. Richie doesn’t have to ask what he means. He and Mike are _ not _ gentle as they drag Charlie’s prone form into the circle of bodies. He knows Mike is full to the brim with just as much hatred for this man as Richie feels. _

He does end up at Richie’s in the end. They sit together in his room, Richie pressed, steady, against his side, while they vandalize old copies of magazines. Richie’s walkman plays a mish-mash of all their favourite songs and the sun dips closer to the horizon. 

It isn’t quiet between them. Richie’s mom jokes are back in force, though less sexual and more insulting. Maybe because he realizes Sonia wasn’t the truly sensitive topic all this time -- though he doesn’t imply anything about having a relationship with her, and Eddie knows it’s because he’s still pissed about the things she _ did _ do, and he _ still _ wants Eddie away from her, but they both know there’s no one else. The only outcome once his mom is out of the picture would be foster care, and Eddie sees his current situation as the lesser of two evils.

Maybe he’s poking fun again because he knows Eddie can take it.

He can. Richie has always known that. Richie is the only reason he still believes that.

“The jam from her smelly-ass armpits gets all in your hair when she tries to like, smother you in hugs, or whatever the fuck, and that’s why your hair gets so greasy so fast, obviously.”

“Oh, you’re one to fuckin’ talk, greaseball. When was the last time you showered? You reek like nacho cheese,” Eddie retorts, not even looking up from the model in a womens’ magazine he’s drawing devil horns on. 

“That’s just the stench of your own foot funk clogging up your nostrils.”

Eddie smacks him on the shoulder with the magazine and Richie laughs, ruffling his hair, and tries to draw a dick on his arm while he’s distracted.

“What did she say?”

The change in his tone is almost tangible. He purposefully avoids eye contact, putting all of his focus into pinning Eddie’s arm and finishing his masterpiece, which is resembling a penis less and less the more Eddie squirms. 

“She--” The words catch fast. Richie finishes drawing the dick and moves on to hearts and smiley faces. Still not looking. Still not sure. “I left. She wasn’t listening to me.”

It burns in his throat. It burns. He doesn’t want to cry. He hates crying. His lip wobbles and he blinks, blinks, blinks until he thinks the danger has passed.

Richie is looking at him. His hand has stilled with the pen pressed to Eddie’s forearm. Eddie knows that helpless draw in his brow better now than he did a year ago. Something vivid and visceral in his gaze. “Oh,” he says. Then, softer, “Oh…”

“I don’t think she believed me,” he says around the thick knot of tears blocking his voice. “Or she didn’t want to.”

It’s Richie who cries first, this time. Tears streak fast down his cheeks when he takes Eddie’s face between his hands and whispers, “I’m sorry.” His fingertips trace over the bruises so lightly that Eddie’s sure he’s imagining it.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” He blinks again. He doesn’t _ want _ to cry.

“I’m sorry I can’t do more for you.”

“What else is there to do? You can’t pay for me to go to therapy. You can’t convince my mom of _ anything. _ Believe me, I’ve _ tried.” _ His voice breaks, twice, and it’s okay, with Richie, he thinks. To be vulnerable. 

Because Richie doesn’t see him as helpless and frail, the way everyone else seems to. Richie thinks he’s capable. Richie _ tells him _ he’s capable. That he’s not made of glass and he’s not always in danger and that letting loose should be fun, not scary.

Richie knows he can handle insults and jabs and outright wrestling.

It’s okay to cry with Richie because Richie_ knows _ he isn’t weak. He’s seen him at his worst and he _ still _ doesn’t think he’s weak. 

So he does. He cries with him.

They stay like that for a long, long time. Until the sun has sunk well below the horizon and cold night air seeps through the open window. Eddie is half-asleep when Richie stirs and starts crawling out of the bed. “Where are you going?” he asks, slurred and a little frantic, clutching his wrist when he feels him slipping away.

“I’m gonna call Bev,” Richie explains, twisting his own hand around to squeeze Eddie’s wrist in return. Eddie tries to shake himself back to alertness. “I want to know if I can borrow her aunt’s car again. I’m gonna take you to the hospital. Y’know, so you can do all those things Bev and you were talking about, that Mrs. K obviously isn’t going to help you with.” 

“Oh,” Eddie breathes. The idea of all _ that _ still sends a shock of anxiety through him like wildfire. But he _ has _ to. He _ should, _ and if Richie’s willing to help him with that, then… “Okay.”

Richie starts to pull away again, but Eddie doesn’t let go and he turns back with an inquisitive noise. He can’t speak for several long moments, too caught up in trying to _ breathe _ while his mind scatters in a million directions at once. 

He’s too _ good. _ He’s a trashmouth and a bastard at the best of times, but underneath that he’s just _ good, _ at heart. He’s perfect.

He doesn’t have to do that for Eddie, but Eddie knows there will be no room for argument. 

Even though this scares the hell out of him (what if he _ did _ contract an STD from his shitty uncle?) he thinks it’ll be okay if Richie is there to keep him grounded.

What the hell did he ever do to deserve Richie Tozier?

“Thank you,” he settles on, and Richie smiles and Eddie _ is _ a little helpless, suddenly.

* * *


	13. You Can Be The...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rest of the truth has to come to light eventually. For now, they can fall into each other with the grace of comfort and protection -- of loyalty with a source more deeply rooted than either of them realize.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, in conclusion....

* * *

Eddie is having just “one of those days”.

The kind where he hasn’t really spoken. Probably hasn’t really eaten.

The kind that makes a pit of concern gape open in Richie’s stomach.

Summer is almost over and the Losers -- all of them -- are in the clubhouse, lounging in various states of activity while cicadas screech at them from the treetops high above. 

Richie let Eddie have the hammock out of courtesy. It’s the kind of day where he isn’t sure if it’s okay to _ touch. _ Where he tries to coax the usual banter out of him but it all falls flat. He tries not to let it show, how worked up he is.

He _ hates _ days like this.

Not because he doesn’t want to deal with it, but because anxiety churns up his insides and _ Eddie-- _ Eddie shouldn’t _ experience _ days like this.

Because Richie doesn’t know how to help him. None of them do, not really. Not even Bev, who is usually a well of wisdom when it comes to matters involving… well… this kind of thing. This kind of thing that makes Eddie quiet and solemn instead of loud-mouthed and off-the-fucking-wall. 

_ “Everyone processes trauma differently,” _ she had explained, with a gentle hand on his shoulder, and Richie had tried to throw back that this _ isn’t _ that -- Eddie isn’t traumatized.

_ But he is, _ Richie thinks on days like today, _ he must be. _

It _ hurts. _

It’s not _ fair. _

He’s sat propped up against the post that supports the hammock, ass on an old throw pillow because the floor is rock-hard. Like some kind of fucked up sentry. Eddie is quiet.

The rhythmic _ thud _ of a hammer fills the space. Stan has taken to building birdhouses so he can place them around the clubhouse. Ben has offered his assistance.

Bill, Mike, and Bev are engaged in a _ deeply _ intense game of ‘Go Fish’, wherein a cacophony of anger and laughter explodes out of their corner every few minutes.

“Stop looking a-at my fucking _ cards!” _ Bill shrieks, slamming a card down so hard in front of Mike he accidentally crumples it.

“Stop fucking holding them like that!” Bev shoots back, then, sweetly, “Bill, do you have any fives?”

Bill throws all his cards across the clubhouse.

Eddie is quiet. 

Richie’s shitty walkman plays _ 99 Red Balloons _through old, crackling speakers (English version this time, because everyone else fucking hates it and their complaints fuel him). The volume is just loud enough to encapsulate the two of them -- just quiet enough that Ben hasn’t tried to stomp on the fucking walkman yet.

Yet.

He’ll catch on soon enough.

Eddie is quiet.

Richie is bored. That’s the word he’d give this, if he was forced to voice these feelings out loud. _ Bored. _ It’s not accurate, but it sounds better than anxious, distressed, overprotective, _ desperate. _

“Eddie Spaghetti?” he calls, peering over the edge of the fabric by his head. He can just make out Eddie curled up on his side, dark hair wild from all the fidgeting he’s been doing since he laid down. 

He receives no response, but he knows Eddie’s awake because he’s been watching him out of the corner of his eye since they got here. He doesn’t know if he’s allowed to touch him -- he never realized before just how much of their relationship hinged on physical contact -- so he does the next best thing and grasps the side of the hammock, giving it a rough shake. “Eddie, my love?”

“...What?”

“I am dying of boredom.”

Eddie makes a noise that might be acknowledgement. Richie leans up a little closer to see him better. Big, dark eyes dart up to glance at him and then he’s back to staring at the wall, a hand tucked up under his cheek. 

“Stan’s construction business is giving me a bitch of a headache,” Richie tries.

Nothing.

“Eddie Spaghetti?” he sing-songs. 

No, _ “You know I hate it when you call me that,” _no melodramatic sigh, no fierce little hands smacking his arm as he continues to teasingly shake the hammock. 

He stops. Rocks up onto his knees, still clutching the side of the hammock, so Eddie is forced to look at him. Bev warned him about things like this, in hushed conversations over the phone late at night. About the way she used to feel like getting through the day would take a gargantuan effort -- in her case, she said, because every little thing made her jump and she just wanted to shut down, get away from it for a while, and she _ couldn’t. _

Eddie, it seems, certainly _ can. _ He’s blank. Empty. There’s nothing occupying his body right now, like he’s just up and left. He’d make a joke about Eddie’s skull being hollow under better circumstances. But right now, he knows well enough what’s going on in Eddie’s head and he doesn’t have the slightest clue how to approach it safely.

“You okay?” he asks. Eddie blinks.

A muscle in his throat works, like he’s gearing up to say something, then relaxes. He shrugs.

“...You need anything?” Richie asks, quieter this time. He wants to push, tease, _ touch, _ but this is all new territory to him. 

Eddie’s one of the strongest people he’s ever met. He’s a bastard and he’s tough as nails. Richie thinks that’s part of why he loves him so much. He knows Eddie can take what he dishes out and throw it back in his face tenfold.

He _ knows _ this.

Something about the days like this tells him he needs to slow down. Eddie has never told him otherwise.

So he doesn’t poke at his stomach or flip him out of the hammock. He doesn’t insult him (or his mother). He doesn’t push all up into his personal space and call him names and mess his hair up more. 

“Let me know if you do,” he says, resting his chin on the edge of the hammock. “Need anything, I mean.”

Eddie’s hand twitches a little where it’s tucked up close to his chest. He nods, almost undetectably.

Richie sits back down and that gaping pit of worry in his stomach yawns wider. He’s not oblivious to the looks Beverly is shooting them, but he chooses to ignore them. It used to feel, sometimes, like it was him and Eddie against the world. Like they could take on anything, together, from overbearing parents to bitchy older sisters to child-murdering clowns (though, admittedly, the rest of the Losers were also involved in that last one). 

He wants that back, but not like _ this. _

He wants Eddie to ride on the back of his bike and screech at him to _ be fucking careful, you can’t just take turns like that, you’re supposed to slow down-- _ and hang out on the corner eating ice cream and making fun of peoples’ outfits. He wants to vandalize the Kissing Bridge with him again and drag him into the public pool despite his protests about people pissing in the water. 

He wants their little bubble back but everything is _ wrong _ about it right now.

He wants to be able to just crawl into the hammock with him and call him something rude enough to take his mind off things but right now he thinks that will just make things worse.

But he isn’t sure he wants Bev’s help right now, either. 

He’s so bad at this.

He’s so _ selfish. _

He doesn’t even notice the quiet rustling until Eddie’s hand is stretching down towards him, inviting, and he reaches out to take it without thinking too much about because, well-- because it’s second nature. Eddie offered. He takes his hand and squeezes, lacing their fingers together.

Eddie gives him a small, bright smile from where he’s shifted closer to the edge of the hammock and Richie thinks that, maybe, he’s not _ so _ bad at this.

*

“You better make sure you don’t have any open sores if you’re gonna jump in there,” Eddie insists, peering down at the murky water that’s accumulated in the quarry, rippling far, far below them. 

Richie rolls his eyes, grins, and twists his arm around to show off the nasty scrape on his elbow he sustained from falling off his bike yesterday. Eddie always warns him to take corners slowly, but since when does Richie follow his advice? It still looks fresh, scabbing bright red, and Eddie could _ swear _ there are still bits of gravel stuck in it -- and Richie is going to drive him up the fucking _ wall _ one of these fucking days, _ honestly. _

“You promised you’d clean and bandage that as soon as you got home.”

“I promised no such thing.”

“You _ said _ you’d take care of it!”

“I _ did. _ I ran it under warm water.”

Eddie heaves the _ biggest _ sigh. “You’re going to get necrotizing fasciitis and die. Slowly.”

Richie, for his part, just shrugs. “Then I shall make the most of my remaining time on this planet.”

“I’ll get my fucking first aid kit.”

“Nope.” Richie grabs his forearm and before he can react, they’re careening over the edge, their friends’ shouts following off the small cliff and down, _ down… _ Eddie takes back one of his hands from where he’s clinging to Richie for dear life just in time to suck in a deep breath, plug his nose, and scrunch up his face before they hit the water.

He can feel the disturbance of several more impacts around them, the other Losers all leaping in after them. 

It’s almost the end of summer. Bev leaves next week and they’ve made it a tradition to risk their fucking lives jumping into the quarry at least once a year. 

He breaks through the surface of the water, gasping for air, with Richie’s hand still clamped around his arm. Richie is laughing, raucous and bright, shoving his dripping hair out of his eyes as he smiles down at Eddie. Eddie smiles back, equally vibrant -- he’s on Richie before he knows what’s coming, tackling him over backwards. 

“Warn a guy next time, assbag! I could’ve drowned!”

Richie relents long enough to let Eddie shove him underwater for a split second. In that second, he thinks he’s won, but then Richie knocks his knees out from under him and he _ screams, _ flailing as he’s hoisted up into the air. 

“Fuck, fuck, _ fuck, _ oh my g--” he doesn’t finish his sentence because Richie throws him -- literally _ throws him -- _ several metres away, where he sinks back into the water with an enormous _ splash, _ still trying to spit curses after him even though he’s plugging his nose again. 

This time when Eddie leaps onto him, Richie stays upright and just _ lets _ him yank at his hair and slap at his bare shoulders, and even though he’s trying his best to be angry, Eddie can’t help but laugh right alongside him. “Douchebag!”

“Asshole!”

“Trashmouth!”

“Wheezy!”

Somehow he ends up situated on Richie’s shoulders while Mike and Stan bear down on them, insisting on a chicken fight. He makes a point of kicking Richie and twisting in his grip a little more than necessary to remind him just how pissed off he is. Until, of course, Stan jabs him hard in the ribs and they _ both _ go down, Eddie’s legs still wrapped around Richie.

Today is easy. Today he’s barely thought of the horrors of the past year. He feels lighter than usual -- maybe that’s something to do with the clear skies and the warm sun -- and laughter spills easily out of his mouth as he spits up the gritty quarry water and splashes Stan as an act of retaliation. 

It isn’t always easy. Last week he scared the shit out of himself when he was doing laundry and spent a little too much time staring longingly at the bottle of bleach in the cabinet. There’s nothing to run away from anymore, he thinks, except bad dreams and the bad days. He was on the phone with Bill for an hour after that, talking about nothing and everything; about their plans for today and the looming threat of going back to school -- _ oh_, he can hate school again, like a normal fucking teenager. About Bev’s inevitable departure and camping out in the fields around Mike’s house and how Richie bought him the new _Spider-Man_ comic when they went to the shop together a few days prior. 

But now Richie’s spitting a stream of water at his face while Bill and Ben race up to the top of the quarry to jump a second time and it doesn’t matter. All the bad shit just doesn’t matter because the sun is shining and he’s _ happy _ and he’s going to make the most of it. 

Even if he has to yell at Richie for getting his gross fucking Trashmouth germs all over his face.

“I got an idea.”

“That’s never good.”

“Don’t be an ass. Scoot.” Richie nudges him with his knee and Eddie rolls over on his bed, making space for Richie to sit. “It’s a good idea.”

“That’s what you always say.”

“I _ said, _ don’t be an ass.” The comic he’s reading is snatched from his hands and tossed aside. “You’re not gonna like it.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

But Richie looks uncharacteristically tense -- Eddie sits upright, leaning closer into his space, intrigued because this has to be something _ big _ and Richie is _ never _ nervous about presenting his absolutely batshit ideas any other time. 

He breathes in slow. Exhales slower. Doesn’t _ quite _ look Eddie in the eye. “I was thinking about getting a job. I mean, I’m sixteen, so I _ should… _”

“Oh.” That’s less ridiculous than he was expecting by a long shot. “No, yeah, that _ is _a good idea.”

“So here’s the thing,” Richie adds in a rush. “You’re also almost sixteen, which means you can get a job, soon, too. Like, a real one. After school and stuff like that. And I’ve been thinking about what you and Bev were talking about -- about, y’know, seeing a therapist or psychologist or whatever-the-fuck.”

“I can’t, Rich. My mom--” he tries to explain, but Richie barrels on.

“I know. I know, but listen. Between you and me, if we both got after-school jobs, I bet we could afford whatever it is you need.”

“Wai-wait, what do you…?” Is Richie honestly suggesting going behind his mother’s back to get help with his fucked-up brain? He’s coping well enough, and while he would appreciate maybe having a trained professional help him pick apart everything that was wrong with that entire ordeal (and maybe help him fit the pieces of _ himself _ back together), to even _ consider _ burdening Richie with the financial aspect of his problem is-- _ “No.” _

_ “Eddie.” _

_ “Richie. _ You need money for college. _ I _ need money for college. If either of us want to get the hell out of Derry, _ ever, _ we can’t waste our money on--”

“It’s not _ wasting _ money!” And Richie doesn’t even know the _ worst _ of it, but he still looks ready to burst when his face contorts into a scowl, hands on his hips. “Something _ bad _ happened to you. Bev knows how to help fix it.”

There isn’t any _ fixing _ it unless he can have his memories erased, and while he knows he can _ try _ \-- wants to _ try -- _ he can’t put Richie in that position. The kind of price range Bev had given him was… _ was… _ and Richie doesn’t even _ know _ but of course he’d offer anyway, it’s fucking _ Richie. _ “Something _ bad _ happened to all of us. Remember It?”

“Of course I fucking remember _It._ This is _ different, _ Eds. This is, like, someone you should’ve been able to trust. Someone who _ shouldn’t _ have hurt you. He _ hurt _ you, for real, and he _ kept doing it _ and-- and it’s _ different, _ okay?”

Here’s the thing.

Richie drove Eddie to the hospital and he sat in the waiting room for _ hours _ and he never really knew _ why, _ except that Bev had insisted he needed to go and get tests done. And Eddie knows Richie assumed the obvious -- he’d had some kind of physical done, gotten checked out for weird drugs in his body because his mom is fucking nuts, probably received a few lectures on eating disorders and how important maintaining a healthy weight is. Made sure Charlie didn’t cause any permanent damage.

Some of those things _ did _ happen. He also had to beg a nurse to _ please _ not call his mother and was poked with more needles than he could keep track of and had someone shake their head and mutter something about _ irresponsible fucking teenagers _ and tried not to vomit all over the polished floor. He lied about the reason for his visit in the sense that he didn’t explain with _ whom _ he’d had unprotected sex, except that it was a boy, because he _ knew _ he needed to get a test for AIDS, if that was a thing they could do. 

And then they’d said they’d call him with the results and he’d worked himself halfway into a frenzy -- a phone call that his mom could intercept, could listen in on, could _ know about in any way. _ Insisted he’d just wait, and they’d tried to deter him by saying it would take several hours but _ no, _ he’d _ wait, _ and that’s why Richie had been stuck in the waiting room so long. 

Because Bev had been vague while she was trying to talk Eddie into this hospital trip, maybe because Richie had been right there, maybe because it would have just been like airing his dirty laundry. And it hadn't been his fault, but the idea of elaborating on his plans for today, even to Richie, had been... it had made his throat seize up. Nothing he did wrong. Not his fault. Still doesn't want to talk about it. Doesn't want to explain the actual extent of the damage. 

Bev knows what really happened. Bev knows the bruises are just the tip of the iceberg. That, while what had happened had been something sexual in nature, the _frequency_ of the issue, the_ violence_ of it, wasn't something that needed to be shared until he was ready. If he was_ ever_ ready. At Eddie’s insistence, she hadn’t disclosed the whole truth, but she _ knows. _ And the partial truth was _ more _ than enough for the rest of the Losers, because to lay a hand on one of their own was always sure to be met with revenge tenfold. 

Eddie opens his mouth to respond but all that comes out is a slightly disbelieving puff of air. He shakes his head. His breath is squeezed out of his lungs in the way that usually has him reaching for his inhaler. “Oh my god, Rich,” he says, and Richie has the decency to look offended.

“What?”

“You don’t even know--” _ How _ is this funny? This _ isn’t _ funny. He doesn’t know if he’s laughing or trying _ really hard _ not to panic. “You don’t even _ know _ the fucking _ half _ of it and--”

Not for the first time, he has to wonder what he could possibly have done to deserve Richie Tozier. 

Richie hasn’t had the misfortune of being relayed the _details_ of Eddie’s situation. Eddie’s not sure he’s ready to talk about it, but if no one else, he trusts Richie with his secrets. He trusts him to understand. He trusts him to help shoulder the burden, when he needs the help. 

Maybe he can’t tell him right now, because his chest is busy heaving with half-laughter, half-fear, but he knows he could. He knows he will. Be it tomorrow, or next week, or a year from now. It’s something he feels Richie_ deserves_ to know, even if he’s pretty sure his feelings are unrequited and that Richie is just trying to be a good friend. It’s something he can’t carry alone forever -- even if it’s shared with Bev, who is too clever, or some faceless therapist in a not-so-distant future.

Richie was willing to fight for him over something so simple as being touched the wrong way by his uncle. Or, it _ seems _ simple, next to the vastly more complex issue of reality. 

He can’t imagine Richie will take it well, when the time comes. When he inevitably can’t keep it bottled up like this anymore. 

But he _ knows _ Richie will be (and always has been) an unfailing pillar of support even in the worst circumstances, and nothing he says will ever change that.

He’s right. And he’s wrong.

Not that Richie reacts with anger, some months later when he finds Eddie drinking alone in the clubhouse, once again severely under-dressed for the current weather conditions -- it’s like déjà vu -- after a particularly rough night sent him fleeing from the confines of his own room.

It happens more often than he’d like to admit.

He doesn’t know if Richie is here because he was looking for him, or because he was seeking his own solitude, but Richie takes the stolen bottle of vodka from his hands and gives him a look that cries _ understanding _ without _ truly _ understanding, and Eddie caves. Starts from the beginning. Doesn't omit a single detail -- and he remembers it _all,_ vividly, as unfortunate as that is.

And when he’s done -- _ blank, _ hopeless; too overwhelmed to cry or do much of anything else -- that old fire doesn’t light behind Richie’s eyes. He’s blank, too, which is somehow worse. And then he takes a few sips of the booze for himself, and he sighs, and he says, “Is it okay if I hug you?”

“It’s always okay,” Eddie replies, easily, unhesitatingly, because it’s _ true. _

“I should’ve killed him,” Richie says, a while later, as they swing in the hammock together, heart beating steady under Eddie’s ear. “That’s _ evil. _ If I’d have known--”

“It wouldn’t have undone anything.”

“I know, but--”

“And could you have lived with that?”

Richie doesn’t speak for a long while. His fingers weave patterns through Eddie’s hair. “No,” he decides, finally, and Eddie nods.

“It wouldn’t have undone anything,” he says a second time.

Richie chest heaves a sigh underneath him. “No. But it would’ve felt justified.”

“I know.”

Eddie wishes they could stay like this forever.

* * *


	14. ...Hero

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They'll be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops I don't want to end this fic lol but I know if I don't do it now I'll just drag it on FOREVER.  
I had fun with it, even if it was pretty messed up. I'll make you beautiful people more heart-rending angst to read in the future, promise <3

* * *

Bev drives herself up from Portland -- missing a day of classes, no less -- to attend prom with them. Officially, she’s Eddie’s date, because they couldn’t stand to listen to Bill and Ben argue about it for another goddamn second. Which means that on paper, Mike’s ticket was purchased by Richie and Stan’s was purchased by Bill, and how they managed to slip that past a school administration that would _ absolutely _ punish two boys so much as _ looking _ at each other wrong is beyond all of them. 

But here they all are. All seven members of the Losers Club, assembled outside the gymnasium at Derry High, buzzing with nerves, excitement, _ uncertainty -- _ in a few short weeks, they’ll all be graduating. Moving on to other things. Will there be anything for Beverly to come back to next summer? The acceptance letter in Eddie’s night stand makes him wonder if _ he’ll _ have anything to come back to.

After going their separate ways, pursuing their separate goals, will any of them find the time or the heart to come back here, even if only for a summer? 

He thinks of never seeing Richie again and his stomach twists. _ That’s _ not something he’s going to stand for. 

And who else, pray tell, is ever going to understand him the way these six losers do? No one’s been through the same hell as they have. No one else on this planet understands the three a.m. phone calls or the aversion to fucking _ sewers _ or the unifying feeling of terror shared amongst them that fateful summer. No one else could ever understand the sense of urgency he feels to make sure they’re okay when he wakes up from a nightmare -- the times he’s woken up beside Richie, in one of their beds or a blanket fort in Richie’s basement or the clubhouse hammock, and just watched him _ breathe _ and let that be enough. The late night calls _ just to see if you’re alright _ because _ what if this is all just an illusion cooked up by _ ** _It_ ** _ ? _

He’s never going to replicate this feeling. Never going to love anyone else the way he loves these six idiot teenagers who are trying to figure out how to sneak booze into prom when he _ knows _ Richie’s already got a stash in his locker that was supposed to be a surprise. And maybe he loves them all _ differently, _ but he’s never going to love anyone as _ much. _

“Stop. Shh! Shut up.” He elbows Richie in the side. “We’ve got it covered, okay? Rich, tell them.”

The principal passes by, offering a friendly wave on his way through the wide-open double doors, from which the same Top Hits that have been droning out of car radios and shop speakers all year are pouring. _ 2 Legit 2 Quit _ literally _ rattles _ the lockers beside them and Richie grins, hands shoved in the pockets of the perfectly-tailored suit he’s wearing (because of course it is, because his dad is a fucking dentist), and nods down the corridor. “I got the goods,” he says, waggling his eyebrows, once Principal Carson is out of earshot. _ “And _a flask. Extra booze is in my locker.” He lifts his left hand out of his pocket just high enough to show off a flash of silver. 

“Oh, good. I was just thinking I need somewhere to store this,” Bev says, and presses a plastic baggie into his pocket beside the flask.

Richie’s eyes go a little wider. “Beverly Marsh, did you sneak _ drugs _ into my good Christian prom?”

Bev grins, and she holds Eddie back when Richie hurries off to hide the joints in his locker. “Hey, you’re not gonna get mad at him for that, are you?” she asks, bending down to talk to him because _ first of all, _ it’s like she’s a goddamn _ beanstalk, _ and on top of that she’s wearing ridiculous heels that make her stand a good half a foot over everyone else here. 

Eddie pretends to _ really _ think about that, laughing when Bev’s face actually falls a little. “No, I’m not gonna get mad. We’re supposed to be dumb teenagers, right? We can put whatever we want in our bodies for a little while.”

“Wow,” Bev murmurs after a beat of silence _ (relative _ silence -- the music is still deafening). “You’ve changed quite a bit, Mr. Kaspbrak.”

Eddie crosses his arms and rolls his eyes. “Near-death by clown does that to a person. You start thinking, ‘maybe trying beer one time won’t matter because I could get mauled at a fucking _ circus _ any day now’. Besides, it’s not like I _ own _ him -- he could smoke crack and I wouldn’t really have a say.”

“But you’d be mad.”

“Of course I’d be fuckin’ mad! It’s _ crack!” _

“Okay, okay!” Richie comes running back down the hall, adjusting his bowtie and grinning toothily. “This is Houston; we are go for launch.”

Eddie glances through the gym doors again: at the swirling purple lights and the _ very _ expensive-looking sound equipment set up by the stage, and the writhing mass of bodies as their classmates dance to yet another gaudy, wildly inappropriate song that blasts from the speakers. When he turns back to his friends, they’re all sharing looks that reflect exactly the way he feels. Like this is a step forward into the strange new future where they have things like _ prom _ and _ graduation _ and _ college _ and _ careers. _ Like this is just another thing to mark the end of their childhood. 

Like it’s a step they’re going to take together, even if Stan isn’t graduating this year (he can’t, because the system “doesn’t work like that”, so naturally he’s filled next year’s schedule with extra credits he doesn’t even _ need _ because it will all look good on a college application and, after all, he’s already completed all his required credits, anyway). Even if Bev has another prom and another graduation back in Portland. Even if Mike is planning to stick around at his grandfather’s farm doing the same thing he’s done the whole time they’ve known him. 

Even if Eddie chickens out and ends up staying in Derry -- he can’t, he _ wouldn’t, _ because his desperation to be away from his mother far outweighs his fear of the unknown. 

“Roger, Houston,” he says through the sudden dryness in his mouth, and when Bill grins and holds out an arm to him he takes it, reaching out to grab Bev on his other side. Arm-in-arm, the seven of them walk into the gym together, Bill leading the way to the table that has all their name cards on it -- one of the only empty tables left in the whole damn place. 

Richie immediately begins switching the names around, like any of them were going to follow a stupid seating chart, putting Bev between Bill and Ben because he’s a shit-disturber, and naturally setting his and Eddie’s cards down side-by-side. As if there was ever any question about where they would sit. 

They pass the flask around during dinner to add vodka to their drinks, and at some point Bev drags Stan away with Richie’s locker number and combination written on her hand and an invitation for anyone to join them (Eddie is surprised when Richie doesn’t immediately take her up on the offer). 

Instead, he excuses himself from the table and disappears into the growing crowd of students who are abandoning their empty plates in favour of socializing. He grimaces at the sight of several couples using the distraction of the excess amount of bodies to hide out and suck face, which, for starters, is _ definitely _ unsanitary and also totally unfair because--

_ Well. _

Richie reappears by the stage, climbing up beside the D.J. and saying something to him, but Eddie is too far away to even try to read his lips. He does see the guy smile and nod, and Richie’s face brighten, and then he’s dropping down off the side of the stage and weaving through the mass of students again. 

“Oh, great. What’s he up to this time?” Eddie hears Mike say off to his left. 

“Probably going to play that ‘Red Balloons’ song again like it’s some kind of hilarious inside joke.” Ben finishes off the rest of his drink in one gulp and reaches for the flask Richie tucked under the tablecloth. “Aw, crap, this is empty.”

“You can catch up to Bev if you move fast enough,” Mike suggests, but Ben is already up and moving, probably because he doesn’t want to hear the fucking ‘Red Balloons’ song and probably because he needs more alcohol to even _ handle _ it in the first place.

Eddie would be _ more than happy _ to hear it because it’s tied to one of his fondest memories and no matter what else was happening in his life that day he’ll _ always _ cherish moments like those.

Richie’s adjusting the lapels of his suit and chewing his lip when he comes back, stopping right in front of Eddie. “Well, now, good sir,” he chirps, sticking out one hand, the other still clutching his lapel, “I do believe you owe me a dance.”

“Oh, god, not the British guy, Richie, you know I hate the--” Richie doesn’t wait around, just grabs his hands and hauls him to his feet. “Hey, wh-- since when do I _ owe _ you anything?”

“Since just now. I decided. Dance with me,” Richie says, dragging him away from the table.

Well, like Eddie was going to have a choice -- they’re already in the middle of the dance floor and Eddie is being jostled by his classmates leaping around like hooligans. It’s kind of a bad place to just stand still and refuse to dance. Also, well, fuck it, right? It’s Richie, and he’s danced with Richie before, even if only jokingly.

Plus, it’s _ Richie. _

It occurs to him exactly what Richie did within about half a second of his hand settling on his waist. The tune changes. Richie knows all of his guilty pleasure songs. Richie has used that against him before (and also to cheer him up, but that’s beside the point). Richie is a bastard.

“You’re a bastard,” he says aloud, when Richie starts rocking them haphazardly around to the erratic beat of _ Footloose. _ “This is evil.”

“Oh, you love it, Eds.”

He does. He doesn’t have to admit it, though. 

“C’mon, dance, puppet!” 

Laughter bubbles up out of Eddie’s chest and Richie pulls him closer to swing them around in a circle. He reaches up with the hand that’s holding Richie’s side, close to his hip, but before he can place it on his shoulder Richie is capturing it in his own. His eyes are vibrant, magnified behind his glasses, which slide down his nose as he leans in _ close -- _ Eddie’s breath stutters in his lungs -- and dips Eddie backwards. 

He feels light. Like he’s full of sunshine and helium. His cheeks hurt from smiling and Richie’s hand is warm around his. 

If he could stay right here, in this moment, for the rest of eternity, he thinks he would. He thinks it couldn’t get better than this. Even if the heat in his chest when Richie squeezes his hand tighter is something other people wouldn’t approve of, he doesn’t see how it can be wrong. 

He thinks he _ loves _ him.

He’s never assigned that word to it before. Not with confidence. But now, all wrapped up in each other, laughing like everything is right in the world, warmth and comfort radiating from the hand pressed to the small of his back -- yeah, he thinks there’s no other word for it.

He’d go to the ends of the universe for Richie, and he has a feeling Richie would do the same. 

His hand is hoisted high into the air, and when he shoots Richie a confused look, he tilts his head, still bright, still radiant _ (beautiful, _ Eddie would say, if that was the kind of word he should describe a boy with), and says, “C’mon, twirl!”

And he does, and when he falls back into Richie’s arms it’s less like they’re dancing and more like an embrace. Neither of them pulls away, still swaying playfully to the upbeat pace of the song, but they’re closer now. Close enough to feel Richie’s rapid heartbeat against his own. 

He _ wants. _ That’s something he hasn’t felt quite so viscerally before now. If he were to kiss Richie, what would happen? He tries to find the answer in the deep brown eyes staring back at him but it isn’t there. Richie doesn’t know, either.

Richie kisses him.

His body reacts instantly, eyes closing, rocking up on his toes to press in closer, fingers tangling in the hair on the back of his head, and he’s faintly aware of Richie’s arms tightening around his waist but mostly it’s the feeling of those lips against his and the way their noses kind of squish awkwardly against each other’s cheeks and how-- oh, _ fuck, _ he’s _ kissing _ Richie Tozier.

He’s wanted to do that for _ years. _

Why didn’t they do this _ sooner? _

They pull apart slightly, just to breathe, just to _ process, _ and Richie’s eyes blink open. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen him look at anything with that much adoration and he swears his heart swells to the size of the fucking sun. “Shit,” Richie says, eyes daring behind Eddie. _ Footloose _ has ended, probably while they were still dancing, and now something much slower is playing and Richie looks around nervously like there’s anything wrong with them dancing to a slow song after _ that. _ “Shit!” he says again, louder this time, and Eddie blinks out of his lovestruck daze and follows his gaze to see people staring. Not a lot of people, but… but enough to tell him they were noticed. 

They were seen. A boy kissing another boy? Scandalous. _ You can’t think like that, Eddie. _

_ Well, look at me now, ma. _

“We should go,” Eddie says, soft, like speaking too loud will draw _ more _ unwanted attention.

Richie’s leading him out the doors before he can figure out where his feet are supposed to go.

_ Fuck. _ He just kissed Richie Tozier. _Richie Tozier,_ who he’s definitely been at least a little bit in love with since before they even _ started _high school.

People noticed.

_ Fuck. _

“I’m so sorry.”

“Huh?”

“I’m _ so _ sorry,” Richie says again, still walking, leading him around corners and deeper into the guts of their school until they’re somewhere in the science wing, close to Richie’s locker where they’re hiding all the alcohol and _ wow, _ would either of them have been that bold without the influence of booze in their systems? He pulls Richie around to face him, planting his feet right there and refusing to budge.

Richie looks all broken up, panicked in a way Eddie hasn’t seen him since the first time they were in the house on Neibolt together. “Why are you sorry?”

“I shouldn’t have done that! Not--” Richie snatches his glasses off his face and starts cleaning them almost robotically, unfocused eyes darting around as if in search of an answer. “Not here. Not like that. Not without even fucking _ checking _ if you...”

“I wanted to,” Eddie assures him when he trails off. Richie slides his glasses back into place, slow, blinking things back into clarity. “I mean it.”

It doesn’t stop Richie from sighing like the world is weighing down on his shoulders and saying, “People saw us.”

“Don’t care.” He’s waited too fucking long for this to _ care. _ “Kiss me again.”

Richie does, and this time when he tries to pull away Eddie grabs his cheeks and holds him there. “People know,” Richie tries to say, muffled between their mouths, and Eddie leaves only enough space between them to respond, “Yeah.”

“We still have like, two weeks left of school.”

“Sure do.”

“We have to write exams.”

“Mm-hm.”

_ “You’re _ supposed to be the one who overthinks everything, here.”

“Please stop _ trying _ to make me worry and just fucking make out with me, _ please; _ I’ve been waiting for this for fucking _ years.” _

“Wow, I am _ definitely _ a bad influence, aren’t I?”

“Put your fucking tongue in my mouth, Rich, or so help me--”

Richie does. 

Maybe he’s right. The next couple weeks are going to be a living hell. Their departure from Derry probably won’t come fast enough, even though it was something Eddie was dreading not two hours ago.

But just for _ now, _ just for one day, he’s going to hold on tight and pretend that everything is okay.

Eddie Kaspbrak is seventeen years old.

He has a lot of adverse experiences and a good year or so of therapy under his belt.

He has a crush on another boy, in a small town where everyone knows everyone else’s business. It’s already scary enough.

He has Richie Tozier in his arms, and none of the other stuff matters as much.

  
  


*

(“And I fucking _ missed _ it?” Stan is shouting, voice high and strained, when they sneak back into the gym nearly fifteen minutes later. “I’ve been _ tormented _ by their lovesick _ bullshit _ for _ years _ and I _ missed it?!” _)

* * *


End file.
